Beyond Back Harlow Road
by Novem
Summary: Three years after the events in 'Stand By Me', Chris Chambers and Gordie Lachance are still standing by each other. What will face them as they journey beyond childhood and into adulthood? Gordie's POV. ChrisGordie. Slash.
1. Study Session

**Disclaimer:** 'Stand By Me' is the work of Rob Reiner and 'The Body' is from the mind of Stephen King.

**Warning:** This story will morph into something akin to slash. Chris/Gordie. No likey, no ready.

**Author's Note:** Although there may be a few references to Stephen King's novella, this fic is based more on the film. This is going to be a chaptered fic, one that I have no real story laid out for and I'm just going with the flow and what seems right. I know that's not the best writing method but I guess it'll have to do. Enjoy.

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**BEYOND BACK HARLOW ROAD**

**One – Study Session**

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Certain things in life never leave you. Certain flavours, certain sounds, certain moments, they can stick with a person for eternity. The softly bitter taste of my first freshly picked strawberry, the voices and instrumentals of my first ever rock concert (Jimi Hendrix and his screaming guitar solos at Denver, 1969. I had been a late-bloomer when in came to music) are all still stuck in my mind, held fast on my cerebrum with nails and Krazy Glue.

I can still remember back in the summer of 1960, so well as if it were yesterday. Hell, sometimes it doesn't even feel as far back as yesterday. A few hours ago perhaps, even a few minutes. Maybe I'm still that same kid, twelve going on thirteen with jeans ripped at the knees and dirty blue sneakers on my feet, staring down at the vacant eyes of a dead boy whose life had been knocked—quite literally—straight out of him.

But then I realise that I can't be that kid. Not anymore. I can't be that kid because that kid hadn't seem Jimi Hendrix yet, hadn't even known who the heck Jimi Hendrix was. That kid hadn't gone to high school, or even had his nose—and a number of other things as well—broken by those dickwads Ace Merrill and Fuzzy Brackowicz right outside of Aunt Evvie Chalmers' front porch. That kid still had his best friend there, his best friend _right there_, beside him. There are no words in the Oxford or the Webster English Dictionary that can explain how much I envy that kid because of it.

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My best friend was sitting at the desk in my room, pressing the heels of his hands up against his shut eyes so hard that—for a short moment—I thought he'd pop them well into the back his head. The college courses had taken their toll on Chris Chambers, although not as much as his grammar school years of doing nought squat when it came to the realms of education.

You couldn't blame him though; he was a 'good-for-nothin' Chambers kid'. What was a Chambers kid, whose daddy was drowning in the bottle and whose eldest brother was in lock up for rape and criminal assault, doing in the college courses? Those Chamberses didn't have half a brain between them; he stood no chance with all the clever kids from the View and Brickyard Hill when everybody knew he'd be better off in the shop classes or in juvie. Hadn't he stolen the school milk-money those years back?

Those were the thoughts of the whole town. Nobody knew that Chris was just as clever as the rest of those wet ends in the college classes, probably even more when he really got into it. Unfortunately seven or so years of skiving lessons with Vern Tessio, Teddy Duchamp and the rest of the old gang meant that he was so far behind on schoolwork and comprehensive knowledge that he was pretty much still tying his shoelaces whilst everybody else was halfway to finishing the race. He was trying to catch up though. Dear God, was he trying.

We would spend hours almost every night studying. Chris there, sat at my desk with his head bowed over the notes he had scribbled down frantically during each class in his scruffy and almost illegible handwriting; and me pulled up on a stool beside him, helping him decipher some complicated algebra or Latin verb tenses.

Sometimes he'd study for so long I'd fall asleep, finding myself lying comfortably on my bed the next morning, my shoes off my feet, a blanket lain across my torso and the window of my room slightly open. That open window not only let in a soft breeze but it also reminded me that Chris had in fact been there the night before. He always came and went by the window, as stealthy as a ninja so as not to inform my parents of his arrivals and departures.

'You spelt 'receive' wrong,' I told him quietly, pointing to the offending word on the paper in front of him. He had mixed up the 'e' and the 'i'. It was a mistake that many people would just glance over; not even noticing it was there. But I knew that for Chris Chambers one mistake was a mistake too many. The teachers lapped up his blunders like a stray dog lapped up spilt baloney sauce. Even little things like misplaced vowels and wayward decimal points would mean a barrage of snide remarks. Anything to get his back up and make him say or do something that'll give them reason for a week worth's of detentions or, if they're feeling particularly malicious, a suspension.

With a tired moan Chris crossed out the word and wrote the correct spelling above of it, nodding a thanks to me as he did so. He was writing an English essay on William Shakespeare, a man the two of us had learnt to hate over the past few weeks. I watched him write for a bit longer before turning to finish the conclusion of my own essay. I had offered for him to read it over, maybe use some of my ideas if he was feeling hard up for any of his own. But Chris always said no, telling me that if he couldn't think on his own then he might as well be in the shop classes with the rest of the retards. He also knew that if he had a look at my work the teachers would recognise the similarities in a flash, pegging him as a cheater and slamming him in detentions.

'Mrs Maycombe says Romeo and Juliet are 'spose to be thirteen,' he said suddenly, snapping me out of my thoughts. 'Christ, that's younger than I am.'

I couldn't tell whether he was talking to me or just thinking out loud. He did that every now and then, the thinking out loud I mean. It was like the thoughts in his head were too much that he had to let some of it out in words. Though he only ever did it around me, so at least he could pretend he was talking to someone and not only to himself like some crazy person.

'I mean,' he continued, 'these guys are like… falling in love and shit, and getting married and, right at the end, they both fuckin' die.' He looked forlorn.

'Well, it's supposed to be a tragedy,' I said, shrugging my shoulders. 'And it was—like—set ages ago. People get married and stuff real young back then.'

'Yeah… I guess,' he muttered. 'Just weird thinkin' they're so young and doing all that. Then dyin' at the end of it.'

Those words had immediately got me thinking of Ray Brower. He had been even younger than old Will Shake's hero and heroine when his life was taken, not by daggers or poison but by a speeding train. I couldn't help but think that the Ray Brower story was even more tragic than that of 'Romeo and Juliet'. Romeo and Juliet were in love when they died, and they died together. I doubted Ray Brower was in love, or ever had been, and he had died all alone by the side of the train tracks near the Back Harlow Road. Even his blueberry pail was nowhere near his body.

I turned to glance at Chris, wondering whether he too was thinking of Ray Brower. The look on his face, the way his brows wrinkled and his steel eyes glazed, told me that he was. Both of us would do that sometimes; think back to the summer of 1960 and the dead corpse of a boy who had been our age. Neither of us would actually say, 'Remember Ray Brower?' but the words were always there, right on the tip of our tongues. We never said it because we never needed to, we always remembered.

'Hey Gordie, can you check this over?' he asked after a moment, holding his essay out to me. I smiled and nodded, noticing it was nearly a whole page shorter than my own. What Chris wrote was quick and concise, never straying from the point and hitting it precisely ('Chris Chambers never misses, does he?' 'Not even when the ladies leave the seat down…'). I took out my pencil and quickly scribbled on a few corrections—nothing to do with the essay, grammar and spelling only. He watched me nervously as I did this, teeth chewing at chapped skin from his bottom lip.

'It's good,' I told him, smiling some more. The muscles in his face relaxed and he returned my smile with one of his own.

There is a well-known cliché that goes, 'he smiled with a smile that lit up his whole face'. When I went to college I was told many times by my creative writing lecturer to avoid clichés. 'Avoid them like the plague,' he used to say, and then he'd laugh at his own joke. But it was true. When Chris smiled it was like a spotlight had illuminated his face, lighting it up and making it glow.

'Ya think?' he said, taking his essay back from me and glancing over it.

'Nah, Chris,' I replied, 'I know.'

_**To be continued...**_

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Where am I going with this? Well you're just going to have to wait and see because I have no idea. This is a short chapter and they will most likely get longer as I go along.  
Also, not being an American or anything, I apologise for any mistakes I have made. You're going to have to put up with my mistakes in spelling and other things, as well as my overall British-ness.  
Reviews are love, remember that.

Novem


	2. Lunch Break

**Disclaimer:** 'Stand By Me' is the work of Rob Reiner and 'The Body' is from the mind of Stephen King.

**Warning:** This story will morph into something akin to slash. Chris/Gordie. No likey, no ready.

**Author's Note:** Speedy update. I should be worshipped… or not. The next updates won't be as quick.  
If anyone's wondering why the title of this fic is 'Beyond Back Harlow Road' I shall explain (if you're not wondering and just want me to 'get on with the damn story, you high-and-mighty writing punk!' then skip below).  
In both 'Stand By Me and 'The Body' the search for Ray Brower was a sort of literal journey out of childhood, which stopped just by the Back Harlow Road where our heroes found Ray's body. The title is a sort of metaphor for Gordie and Chris journeying even further from childhood and going 'beyond' it all into adulthood.  
Pretty freakin' deep, huh? And who said I didn't think about this story? (What? It was me? Never mind then.)

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**Two – Lunch Break**

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Mrs Maycombe was handing back the essays. She returned mine with a curt nod and carried on along the column of desks, I had gotten an A. Turning around to Chris sitting at the desk behind mine I gave him a thumbs-up, grinning happily from ear to ear. If I got an A than he would have at least gotten a B. I had read his essay and—although it had been short—it was good, I had not lied to him that night. He did not return my grin.

'What's wrong?' I mouthed to him, my brows furrowing. Chris simply shook his head and pushed his marked essay across the desk, allowing me to see the upside-down grade. It was a C minus. I could just make out Mrs Maycombe's curly script, written red across the margin, 'not enough depth, too brief.'

I looked back up at him and he smiled an empty smile at me, shrugging his shoulders in a way that told me it didn't matter. But it did matter, of course it did. It mattered so much that it hurt. It hurt Chris, every time he tried so hard and yet always came up short; and it hurt me to see the dejected look in his eyes, hidden only partly behind a mask of nonchalance.

I felt an urge to reach over across his desk, touch his arm and say something comforting. Something along the lines of, 'Mrs Maycombe's a bitch. She doesn't know shit from a sonnet.' I would've done so too if Mrs Maycombe herself hadn't banged her ruler against my desk, making both me and Chris jump almost a mile up from our seats.

'Mr Lachance, would you kindly stop making eyes with Mr Chambers and face the front?' The classroom erupted into muffled giggles at her words. Rolling my eyes—a gesture that was only visible to Chris—I turned to look up at her, mumbling a quiet apology. For a second I could see the shadow of a smirk on Mrs Maycombe's wrinkled face as she went back to the blackboard, white chalk in hand. I wanted to spit at her, tell her she was an unfair whore. Instead I just scowled, burning imaginary holes into back of her straw-brown, tweed jacket.

At the desk next to me Ritchie Bishop had turned back around to flirt with Nancy Grahams—who had recently obtained herself a pair of Double D sweater puppets over the past month. Mrs Maycombe, however, just carried on writing on the board.

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'Mrs Maycombe's a bitch,' I said as Chris and I walked down the halls towards the school cafeteria. 'She doesn't know shit from a sonnet.'

'S'okay.' He shrugged his broad shoulders again and stared down at the floor. 'It's not like I liked English much anyways.'

That was what he would always say. 'It's not like I liked English much.' 'It's not like I liked Algebra much.' Basically all he was really saying was, 'It's not like I liked school much.' He'd still turn up though. Every day he'd be stood at my front porch with his leather jacket and his engineer boots, waiting for me so we could walk to school together. He hated the place so much, almost as much as he hated his squalor of a home, but he'd still go. Some days he'd be on the precipice of quitting and I always felt that the slightest thing, the slightest gust of wind, would knock him right off the edge. Except he never fell, never once slipped on those loose rocks of failure, and hell was I glad for it.

'Hey faggot!' I glanced over my shoulder and saw Ritchie Bishop walk towards us. He was flanked at either side by two of his cronies from the grade below.

'Talkin' to yourself again, eh Ritchie?' Chris spoke up from beside me. His voice was strong and sturdy and I knew he had gone into tough guy mode like he had many times before.

'Whatever,' Ritchie said, pushing through us. He had attempted to shove against Chris's shoulder but didn't manage it, Chris being a whole three inches taller than him and a lot more solidly built.

'Fuckin' Castle View pussies,' Chris said as they walked away, not bothering to keep his voice down.

'Sincerely,' I agreed.

Ritchie came from a middle class family and lived in a nice two-storey house up on the View. He was an only child and his parents worshipped the ground he walked on. Compared to shitbags like Ace Merrill and Chris's older bro Eyeball Chambers, Ritchie was nothing. He'd never been in a tussle that led to anything worse than a scraped knee and a slap on the wrist for being naughty, and deep down I think Ritchie knew that. That's why he never did anything worse than name-calling because he'd never be able to stand in a fight against Chris. Heck, even I could probably best him on a good day.

Still, Ritchie was light-years smarter than Ace and Eyeball. He wouldn't get dirty in a fight but he would get dirty with his words, knowing full well that if Chris ever laid a finger on him it'd be a three-day suspension for the Chambers kid. Violence towards a fellow class member, Chris couldn't risk that.

'You hungry?' he asked me.

From the sound of his voice I guessed the answer he wanted was 'no' and so that was what I said. I could skip lunch if he needed me to and he would do the same for me. It was a best friend thing.

'Let's get out of here,' he said, turning a full one-eighty. He began to head towards the school exit. 'We'll be back by next period,' he added in a tone that almost sounded like he was trying to be reassuring, as if he still thought I expected him to bunk off the afternoon lessons like he had done every so often back in grammar school.

We walked right out the school gates, ignoring the curious stares that followed us from the rest of the student populace. Although it was known straight from the get-go that Chris Chambers was not like them, it had taken everyone a bit longer to realise that I wasn't either. I'd always wondered whether, if it hadn't been for Chris, I might have turned out like the rest of them. Definitely not like Ritchie Bishop, that's for certain, but maybe someone else. One of the quieter ones that sat at the front of the class, head down and mouth shut. Who knew?

'What you thinkin'?' Chris asked, kicking a bunch of pebbles across the street. The corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk as they all rolled neatly into the gutter a couple yards away. Never missing.

I paused, pondering a second for the best thing to say before finally deciding on, 'I'm thinking about how much of a show-off jerk you are.'

'Shut up you fucktard,' he said, whacking me lightly upside my head and causing the hair at the back stand up on end.

'I don't shut up, I grow up, and when I look at you I throw up,' I retorted automatically.

'Then your mom goes around the corner and she licks it up,' Chris came back just as swiftly, laughter bubbling in his throat. I laughed too, unable to stop myself. For an instant it had seemed like we were twelve years old again, sitting in Milo Pressman's junkyard and flipping coins to see who'd be in charge of getting the provisions.

As our laughter died down Chris placed an arm around my shoulder and brought me into a quick half-hug. He did this often. As if it were to check that I was still there, that I was still solid and real and not just some weird mirage like the ones people saw in the deserts of Egypt. It was then that my stomach growled, low and menacingly like a coming thunderstorm crossed with an angry pit bull.

'Gordie, you wet,' Chris said, taking his arm from my shoulder and pushing me gently to the side. 'Fuckin' liar, you said you weren't hungry.'

'Well I wasn't then. Just that I am now,' I replied. 'But the cafeteria food tastes like piss from a tin can anyways.'

'Still better than what I have back home.'

I didn't doubt that. Back then I had never been in Chris's house, only ever going far enough to rap my knuckles on the peeling wood front door of it. He would never let me in, whether it was from shame or want of privacy I never knew (though it was probably a mixture of both). In any case it wasn't difficult to see that the inside of the shack would be just like the outside, dilapidated and decrepit and falling to pieces.

It was mystery in itself how Chris managed not to be a feeb with all the shit he had to grow up with and the shithole that he had to grow up _in_. In reality he was a perfectly normal-looking fifteen year old, perhaps even a bit taller than average. That is, if it weren't for the stains on his shirt, the holes in his jacket and the dirt in his light brown hair.

'Yo Gordie, why dya keep doing that?' Chris had stopped walking and was looking at me with a twinkle of mirth in his eye.

'Doing what?' I asked.

'Ya know, goin' off in your head and stuff.' He twirled his hand above his head so as to represent the 'going off in your head' part of what I was supposedly doing.

I shrugged. 'Can't help it.'

'Must be interesting in there then,' he said and I assumed that he meant it must be interesting in my head, which I supposed would be true to someone who wasn't me. It would be interesting in anyone's head if it weren't your own, what with all those unfamiliar thoughts roaming about the place. It'd be like going to a different country. The country of Gordonia. The kingdom of Chrisland. Something like that.

'You're doin' it again, Gordie,' Chris said and before I knew it he had pulled me into another half-hug, tapping a knuckle against my skull and making 'clunk' noises with his tongue off the roof of his mouth. 'I'm looking for Gordon Lachance,' he bellowed in my ear. 'Is he in there?'

'Jesus H. Christ,' I yelled, attempting to shove his face away from my ear. Chris was stronger than I was and held on easily. 'I'm gonna go deaf. I fucking swear it!'

Our shouting had gathered quite a bit of attention from the other people in the street. Some just took one look at us, recognised us as that smart-mouth Lachance boy and that thieving Chambers kid, and went on their way. Others didn't.

'Well, if it ain't a lovers' tiff.'

Chris let go of me immediately and, from the corner of my eye, I saw him tense up. However when he realised whom the speaker was he relaxed, though only slightly.

Teddy Duchamp was standing at the side of the kerb, his thick glasses twinkling like flashlights in the midday sun. I hadn't seen him for a while, except maybe a couple times in the halls when classes changed.

'What you doing out here, Teddy?' I asked. It was a fair question. The students who did the shop courses had a different lunch break than those who did college ones. It was so the cafeteria didn't get crowded with too many hungry kids at once. It was still at least another half hour before the school bell would ring for Teddy's break.

'Didn't ya hear, Gordo? I had a disagreement with Fatass Ferris and he gave me a three-day vacation. I've been as free as a fuckin' bird, man!' Teddy raised his arms in the air and flapped them up and down like they were wings. Then he laughed his patented Teddy Duchamp laugh; it was as pleasant and as melodic as inch-long nails scraping across a chalkboard. 'Eeee-eee-eee.'

I had in fact heard of Teddy's suspension, although I hadn't remembered until he reminded me of it just then. 'Fatass Ferris', as Teddy had so lovingly called him, was Mr Ferris the school guidance counsellor. He had a talk with a whole bunch of us two days ago about what we should do in the future. For me he said—unsurprisingly—that I should do something in English. For Chris he had been practically begging him to take at least one shop course so that he wouldn't flunk the entire state. For Teddy? Well, Mr Ferris had made the bad mistake of telling Teddy that maybe he should be thinking of another vocation, one that wasn't in military services, what with his eyes and his ears and all. That was when Teddy flipped, screaming that the guy was a lying sack of shit.

'How's Vern?' Chris asked. Neither of us had really seen Vern Tessio for a while either, just like neither of us had seen Teddy Duchamp. We no longer lived in the same world to each other. Yes, it was still all Castle Rock but apart from that nothing was the same. The chance meetings we had with them, like the one we had then with Teddy in the dusty street, felt like we were in a sort of limbo between our world and theirs. Floating around at the midpoint in a daze.

'Fuck knows,' Teddy said. 'Probably with that goofy Becky Ramirez chick.'

I had no idea whom the hell Becky Ramirez was but Chris, who had nodded in an understanding way, appeared to. She must have been Vern's girl. I had forgotten we were at that age when girls could be had.

We stood there for a while longer, me with my hands in my pockets and Chris with a hand at his waist. We no longer knew what do to with Teddy around. It's not like we could pile on him and mess up his hair anymore.

'Well,' I said finally, 'we better get back to school.' That wasn't quite true but Teddy didn't need to know that, it was not like he had a watch to contradict us with, or the ability to use one even if he had. Not that he was too dumb tell the time, though he was close to it, just that his eyes were too messed-up to read the hands. 'Good seeing you Teddy.'

'Yeah,' Chris added. 'Good catch-up.'

'Fuckever,' Teddy said. 'See ya, you pussies.' He began to walk away, whistling the theme tune to the Flintstones in between his teeth. He paused about five yards away to howl a 'Yabba Dabba Doo!' at the blue noon sky, like a four-eyed daytime wolf howling at an invisible moon.

'Teddy's crazy,' Chris said, watching him go. 'Think he's ever gonna get in the army?'

'Not a chance in high heck,' I muttered.

Chris let out a long breath and shook his head. 'That's gonna fuckin' kill him.'

We made it back to school just in time for the afternoon bell. Taking the long route back through back alley roads, climbing up walls and jumping back down them again to the other side. No real reason for doing so, just to waste time. I had considered asking him who Becky Ramirez was but I hadn't. If I didn't know her then she wasn't important.

I took my Algebra books out my locker. 'You coming round to mine tonight?'

'Yeah,' Chris replied, gathering up his own books and flipping through the pages. 'I'm gonna need help with all this shit.'

_**To be continued…**_

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Well that's the first two chapters over and done with. I know it seems as if nothing's really happening but I swear something will, these first chapters are just setting the scene.  
I've been forming an actual plot in my mind (yup that's right ladies and gentlemen, a real live plot) so I sort of have a direction for this story finally. If you guys are seeking slash then you may have a while to wait. It will be there though, just sit tight.  
Reviews keep puppies alive and well and free of rabies, remember that.

Novem


	3. Night Wanderings

**Disclaimer:** 'Stand By Me' is the work of Rob Reiner and 'The Body' is from the mind of Stephen King.

**Warning:** This story will morph into something akin to slash. Chris/Gordie. No likey, no ready.

**Author's Note:** It seems the chapters are gradually getting longer. I say this is a good thing. Enjoy.

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**Three – Night Wanderings**

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I had asked for extra portions at dinner that night. Neither my mother nor my father noticed that I didn't actually eat half of what I was given. More than three years since my older brother Denny's death hadn't changed much in my family. I had grown a few inches in height and my parents had grown more and more tired, wrinkles etching deeper in their skin as time worn on. But three years had at least given me some time to get used to it all. It was not like I minded missing out on the father-son ballgames my school sometimes held because my old man's knee was acting up again. Chris always missed them out with me.

Chris was the reason I had asked for the extra portions, three miniature roast potatoes and a thick slice of meatloaf. Skipping lunch was all well and good for me; I was the one who would have the hot meal ready on the dinner table at six o'clock sharp. Chris wasn't quite so lucky. He'd be hungry when he came over to study.

I never knew exactly what time he would arrive. Sometimes he'd appear early and I'd hear the tapping of pebbles on my window at around half-six in the afternoon, just after I finished eating. Other times he'd show up well into the evening, though never long after sundown. Once the sun had set and true night had risen then I knew he wouldn't be coming. It was like an unwritten rule.

An hour passed by and the food I'd smuggled for him had gotten cold; the potatoes no longer glistening with butter and the meatloaf less like a loaf and more like a rock.

Another hour passed and I went to my bedroom window, hoping to see his figure walking down the street. There was nothing. I half expected a piece of tumbleweed to drift past like in the cowboy movies. But of course Castle Rock wasn't in the Wild West.

He had said he would come, hadn't he? That was the thing. It'd have been fine if Chris hadn't said so. It was his way, sometimes he'd show and sometimes he wouldn't. But he had said! Chris Chambers kept his word, especially with me.

There was little denying it now. The sun was doing the limbo under the horizon, painting the sky red and orange as it fell. I could already see the white crescent moon as well as a few stars popping into existence. Anxiety twisted inside of me; like a snake it had begun to wrap around my throat and my stomach, tighter and tighter. I looked at my watch just as the hour struck nine.

Imagination is both a gift and a curse. You can use it to get yourself lost in a fictional world when the real one is bearing down too hard for you to handle. You can use it to make up stories, for yourself, for your friends or for the general public in exchange for money. However it can also run riot and make the worst thoughts appear in your head. Thoughts about why Chris hadn't shown. Was he hurt? Was his father on a mean streak again? Old man Chambers could be shit-faced drunk, even more so than he was usually. Chris could be at his little shack-of-a-home, getting the life beaten out of him. Or maybe it was his jackass brother, Eyeball, doing the beating. For all I knew, it could even be both.

At fifteen I could control my imagination better than I could when I was twelve. Back then I used to see things that scared me to the core, dead bodies hanging limp from coat-hooks, their faces pale and their eyes as blank as a china doll's. However my imagination, although at times controlled, could never be tamed. This was one of the times it was going wild.

I sat at my windowsill, staring out into the empty and darkening streets as I breathed deep and slow so as to calm myself down. It didn't work. I began to count to ten but that didn't help much either. I had stopped when I realised I counted seven twice and missed out eight completely.

There was no way I was going to sit there all night.

I stood up fast, so fast I had to lean on the wall and close my eyes to shake the woozy feeling from my head. Once the head rush had subsided I searched my room for my sneakers, finding them lying by the side of my bed next to a heap of clothing. I shoved them on and contemplated for a moment whether I should attempt to put spare pillows under my blanket to make it look like a sleeping figure. I quickly pushed that thought aside. There was no point; my parents usually never entered my room anyway. As I opened my window, just wide enough to slip myself through, I hoped they would continue on with that tradition.

Just outside my bedroom window stood a large tree, its branches strong enough to support the weight of a human being. I climbed onto one of these branches from my window ledge and used it to swing myself down to the bottom ones and then, eventually, onto the ground. I wasn't as graceful as Chris at it, or as quick. He had had more practice after all.

Night-time had truly hit. In those days there weren't streetlamps to guide you—in big cities, yes, but not in small towns like Castle Rock. There were, however, a billion stars and one heck of a large moon to provide an ample amount of lighting.

I made my way down the deserted street. I had decided to head for Chris's house first, although I had no idea what I'd do when I got there. Knock on the door perhaps. Come up with some harebrained fabrication as to why I was there.

_'Hey Mr Chambers,'_ I could say. _'Is your son about? He left his books at my place.'_

As if that would work. What logic was there in a teenage kid going over to some guy's house at night to return a couple of schoolbooks? Hell, I hadn't even brought any books along with me to uphold the lie if I ever attempted it.

_'Yeah he left his books at my place, and they're still at my place. I just thought I'd come over to your house and tell you that he left them there but not actually bring them with me because he can just go get them himself. It'll teach him a lesson about forgetting books at other people's house.'_

I wondered how a conversation like that would pan out. It would have been funny if I weren't so fucking desperate to find Chris.

Halfway between my place and Chris's was an elm tree and in it was a tree house made of scavenged planks of wood. A corrugated tin sheet made do as its roof. Teddy, Vern, Chris and I had hawked that tin sheet from Milo Pressman's junkyard back when we were about ten or eleven years old. Us four had built the tree house together and we were damn proud of the result. Yeah it was no mansion; when it rained the tin roof made it sound like you were sat in a Jamaican steel drum and half the walls were covered in duct tape from the number of holes and splinters, but it belonged to us. It was our creation and our masterpiece.

Over the years though, it stopped being 'ours' and started being Teddy and Vern's and a number of other guys we didn't know. It was not like they kicked Chris and me out of it. We just went less and less once the tree house had begun to teem with new faces, each of them younger than we were. As the days—and years—went by we just never went back there. Every now and then we would get the urge to, until we saw all the preteen kids throwing cigarette butts out the window and ogling at dirty magazines. Even though we were the same at that age it just didn't feel as right anymore. The tree house was no longer ours but everybody else's.

I was walking past that tree house when I heard the noise of wood scraping against wood and the shuffling of feet. It could have been anyone, Teddy, Vern, or one of their goons from the lower grades, but something told me it wasn't them. Maybe it was the fact that—although I heard the noises—the sound was muffled and almost cautious, as if the person in the tree house was trying to make as little noise as possible. Teddy wouldn't have cared about things like that; he would have woken up the whole neighbourhood if need be. Vern too would have done the same, though it would have been his own clumsiness and not his lack of social propriety—of which he had an almost negligible amount anyway—that would have been the reason. The goons I didn't know about, but instinct said it wasn't them either. Instinct said it was someone else.

I walked over to the ladder and quickly climbed up its rungs. Once I reached the trapdoor I lifted it open. I had hoped to be quiet but the tree house wouldn't allow it. The trapdoor croaked like a dying bullfrog as it opened and I grimaced at the loudness of it in the silent night.

'Hey Gordie,' I heard a voice say and I breathed a sigh of relief. Instinct had been right after all, and a good thing too. Looking over my shoulder I saw Chris slouched languidly in the corner of the tree house, the area around him shoved clear of boxes and a number of other junk.

I lifted myself fully from the trapdoor and let it fall shut behind me. 'Hey to you too,' I replied, turning to face him properly.

It was then that I truly saw Chris. Looking at him head on and not over my shoulder. His left eye was puffy and bruised and there was a reddish-brown blob on his bottom lip that I could only identify as blood. He looked like a numerous number of fist-shaped cars had hit him.

'Fucking hell!' I exclaimed, rushing over to where he sat and kneeling before him so as to get a better look at the damage. When I was younger I would've asked him what had happened but I no longer needed to; I knew the answer well enough, he had been beaten again.

Reaching over I touched the swollen area around his eye and Chris immediately flinched away, turning his head to look in the opposite direction.

I sucked in a deep breath. 'Anything broken?' I asked. I saw Chris's shoulders shrug.

'I dunno,' he mumbled, his face still turned away.

'Come on,' I said and I began to lift the bottom of his shirt up. Chris started and looked at me, his eyes wide and confused.

'I want to check if you broke anything,' I explained, my hands still clutching the bottom of his shirt.

'I didn't break anything, okay?' He pushed my hands down, shaking his head.

I didn't release my grip. 'You didn't seem so sure before.'

'Well I am! It doesn't hurt when I breathe so nothin's broken there, right? And I can move my limbs just fine so nothin's broken their neither.'

Sighing I let go of his shirt and moved so I was beside him, sliding my back down the wall into a sitting position. 'Fine,' I muttered.

'Fine,' he said, his tone of voice matching my own.

We sat there in silence, neither of us looking at the other and both of us staring straight ahead. It was Chris who spoke up again.

'Sorry.'

'What for?' I asked, glancing over at him.

'I dunno,' he replied. He let out a laughing breath and shook his head. 'What you here for anyway?'

'Looking for you,' I said and told him about what had gotten me there, though I had dimmed down how worried I had been, making it seem more like I was curious about his whereabouts than anything else. I even told him about what my plans had been when I got to the Chambers Household, including my lame lie with the books. Chris laughed properly at that and I smiled.

'Good thing I heard you up here instead,' I finished.

Chris nodded. 'Fuck knows what my old man would've done if you did that.'

'Was it your old man or was it Eyeball?' I asked suddenly, unable to stop myself. My question would have seemed out of the blue and completely nonsensical to anybody else but Chris knew what I meant straight away.

'It wasn't Eyeball,' he said finally after a silence I thought would have lasted for eternity. I noted how he didn't say that it was his father, just that it wasn't his brother. Chris always did that. Never confirming and only ever denying when pushed.

I leant further back against the wall and decided for a subject change. 'Going to school tomorrow?'

'Yeah,' Chris said and motioned almost invisibly to his face, 'this ain't too bad.' Ever the optimist was Chris Chambers. I had no idea how he did it. What his dad had done to his face—in my opinion—definitely counted as 'bad'.

'You should've come to my place then,' I said, 'I saved you some food.'

Chris shrugged, a gesture he had begun to do more often. 'I didn't want to worry you.'

I sat bolt upright and turned sharply to stare at him, my chest was rising and falling as I took in angry breaths. 'You're kidding, right?' I half-yelled. 'I was fucking worried because you didn't show, you asshole!'

Chris stared right back at me, then brought a hand to message his temple. He always looked ancient whenever he did that. 'Screw you, Lachance,' he said, his voice sounded exhausted and unable to carry the simple threat. 'How was I supposed to know?'

'Just don't do it again,' I said, ignoring his question. I knew that if I answered it I'd just end up sounding like a pussy.

'I won't, I promise.' He kissed his pinkie finger and held it up like had done when we were kids.

I rolled my eyes just as my lips quirked up into a small smile. With a flump I slumped back against the wall beside him, jabbing his side lightly with my elbow. It was a light jab, except I had forgotten Chris's current fragile state. He winced, but only for a fraction of a second, attempting to hide the wince by looking down at the floor. I pretended not to notice, not being in the mood for another miniature dispute. Sometimes it was best just to let things go.

The night wore on and we talked about other things. Chris asked me a few questions about Algebra and I tried to answer them to the best of my ability without the use of pens and paper. It took quite a bit of effort and a lot of random hand gestures in the air. He understood me though, like he always did.

We also talked about things of no consequence, like that new episode of _The Twilight Zone _and random other shit. How bored the ancient Greeks must have been to work out pi ('They didn't have Twilight Zone,' I had said and Chris had laughed) and why, if all those stupid ACME inventions kept backfiring, did Wile E. Coyote keep on buying them.

After a while, though, we just sat there in silence. Not the silence of before—a more peaceful sort of silence, the comfortable sort of silence that only two close friends could share. Chris was again the one who broke it.

'Thanks, man.'

I looked at him and smiled. 'Don't sweat it,' I replied. 'I always said I'd help with school stuff.'

'Nah,' he said, shaking his head. 'I don't mean that.' I looked at him curiously and he carried on, though a little bit hesitantly. 'I mean, thanks for lookin' for me tonight. I'm glad you did.'

My smile grew and I shook my head just like he had done. 'I said, "Don't sweat it", didn't I?'

He grinned, although the grin soon turned to a yawn, one that seemed to catch him by surprise. His yawn made me glance at the watch on my wrist, squinting in the dark to read the hands. It was heading towards midnight.

'You better get back,' I heard Chris say. I turned my eyes back to him, expecting him to be leaning over to look at my watch as well. He wasn't, he was looking straight at me. Chris didn't have to look at my watch to read the time; all he had to do was read me.

'What about you?' I asked.

'Staying here.'

I raised my eyebrows. 'No way.'

'Yes way.' He reached over into the pile of junk he had pushed into the opposite corner of the tree house and pulled out a tattered old blanket from the middle of it. He held it up to me as if to say, 'See?'

'I'm staying too then,' I told him. I could see his mouth open to protest but I spoke up before he could. 'It'll be like camping out or something.'

Chris looked at me suspiciously. 'There's only one blanket.'

'You call that shit-rag a blanket?' I laughed. 'I think I'll manage without it Chambers, it's a warm night.'

I saw his uncertainty cave and he nodded, giving in. 'Fine,' he said, 'Just don't cry come cryin' to me when you wake shivering like a cold pussy.'

'You wish,' I said and lay myself on the wooden floor of the tree house. Chris did the same opposite me, letting the torn blanket fall over him.

I think it was at around two in the morning when I woke up shivering like a cold pussy. Gently I nudged Chris's side. He made a noise that was somewhere in between a groan and a splutter of laughter, and with a tired hand he lifted up the corner of the blanket. I didn't move.

'Jesus, Gordie,' I heard him mutter from under the blanket's folds. 'I'm not giving you the whole thing. Just get the fuck in, you retard.'

'Speak for yourself,' I whispered and crawled over to where he lay, taking the corner of the blanket from Chris's hand and shuffling under it. When it fell on top of me I was surprised at the warmth, though I didn't know whether most of the heat was coming from the blanket itself or the fact that Chris's body was right beside me. I moved slightly away from him, uncomfortable with our near proximity, and closed my eyes and fell asleep.

My dream was in a haze of red and gold. I was standing at a door I recognised as the front door to Chris's house. It was ajar. I pushed it open and took what—in my dream—I had thought was my first ever step into the Chambers household. The door creaked as I opened it, a loud and piercing noise that I shoved my hands over my ears. Of course in a dream doing things like that did little to help. The creak carried on even after the door stopped moving; soon it turned into a scream. It was the scream I had heard that night in the woods when Chris, Teddy, Vern and I had gone in search of Ray Brower's body, the scream of a wildcat.

'Or dying woman,' Teddy said from behind me. I turned around sharply but he wasn't there.

'No, it's that Brower kid's ghost.' This time it was Vern's voice, though he too was nowhere to be seen.

The screaming stopped suddenly and I ventured further past the door. It slammed shut behind me. I was now in a long corridor, the walls peeling with dried paint. Over at the end of the corridor I saw a figure slouched in the corner.

'Chris?' I called but he didn't answer. The corridor was long, real long; I thought he probably hadn't heard me. I hurried over to him, calling his name again at intervals. Halfway to him I saw a pair of battered Keds lying on the floor. I ignored them and kept on running.

When I reached him I was exhausted, hunching over myself and taking in wheezy breath after wheezy breath of the dream air.

'Chris?' I said, my voice hoarse. I looked at his feet and saw he wasn't wearing any shoes. 'Where are your shoes?' I wondered whether the Keds I had seen were his, until I remembered that Chris didn't own any Keds.

He didn't answer me yet again and this time I looked up at his face. The bruises and cuts were gone, his skin flawless and perfectly unmarred. His eyes were closed and it seemed like he was sleeping… sleeping or dead.

I started awake, eyelids jerking open to see a blurry face above my own. I blinked and saw the face belonged to Chris; his brows were knitted together in concern.

'You're awake,' he said, sounding relieved.

_'And you're not dead,'_ I wanted to say but stopped myself.

'Was it Denny?' he asked and at first I was confused. Was _what_ Denny? Then I realised he must have meant my dream. He knew I dreamt about Denny's death, even more than three years after it happened I still did.

'Yeah,' I lied. I didn't think it was appropriate to say that no, it wasn't Denny—it was you. Chris would have freaked, or at least I sure as hell would have if someone had said the same to me.

'You okay?'

I mumbled some sort of confirmation and saw his face relax. He smiled at me and whispered, 'Get back to sleep.' I nodded.

With a shuffle Chris lay back down next to me. Except this time he was closer than he had been before, and this time I didn't move away from him as I had done earlier. I was just content to feel the heat of his body there alongside mine and not someplace distant I couldn't reach. I edged up a little nearer and closed my eyes, drifting off easily into a dreamless sleep.

**_To be continued…_**

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Aww bless the wee laddies sleeping in their wee tree house under their wee raggy blankie.  
Reviews are, as per usual, lovely to receive. I do like reading what you guys have to say.

Novem


	4. Friends and Family

**Disclaimer:** 'Stand By Me' is the work of Rob Reiner and 'The Body' is from the mind of Stephen King.

**Warning:** This story will morph into something akin to slash. Chris/Gordie. No likey, no ready.

**Author's Note:** I've been out of the writing mode lately so this chapter is slightly shorter than expected. Still the longest yet though, so yaysees. This chapter is rife with very mild slashy implications. Further yaysees!

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**Four – Friends and Family**

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I woke up the next morning to the sound of a skylark and the uncomfortable feeling of a knee wedged in my stomach, a knee that couldn't be my own because I knew for certain that I didn't have that sort of flexible capability. My body ached all over and I wondered why—instead of the soft mattress of my bed—I was lying upon a hard wood floor. A heavy yawn escaped my lips and I began to rub my sleep-encrusted eyes open.

Chris was the first thing I saw, his eyes were closed and the bruise that shaded his left one stood out in deep contrast against his lightly tanned skin—a deep purple mixed with angry scarlet. His face lay only a few inches in front of mine, so close that I could feel the warm breath from his nose touch the skin of my cheek. I yelped in surprise.

'Christ, does you breath stink Gordie,' said a Chris who was not as asleep as I had thought, though his eyes were still closed I could see his mouth curled up into his trademark ruffian smirk. His smirk made me glance down at the scabbed over cut upon his bottom lip and the raw red flesh around it. The memories of the night before came flooding back into my mind, answering my mental questions as to why I was sleeping beside Chris in our long-forgotten tree house. Even so, although the useful thing called a memory had answered my questions, it didn't make the situation seem any less weird.

'Yours probably does too,' I retorted lamely and Chris laughed, finally opening his eyes to stare at me amusedly with irises of steel green.

'Nah, I smell as fresh as a freshly picked daisy,' he said matter-of-factly. He leant close to me, still laughing, and opened his mouth, breathing stale morning breath right under my nostrils. I jolted back and covered my abused nose with my hands, making fake retching noises as I did so. In my vengeance I yanked his half of the blanket off of him, exposing his lightly clothed body to the cold dawn air.

'Fuck, it's cold,' he yelled, sitting bolt upright and rubbing the top of his sleeveless arms with his hands. He glanced over at me with one eyebrow raised and a grin resting upon his lips; it was a glance I knew all too well and it only meant one thing.

'Oh shit,' I whispered just as Chris screamed a battle cry and pounced on me, mouth opened wide to breathe more morning breath at my unprotected sinuses. He held me down, grasping my wrists with his hands so I couldn't push him away. I tried to kick him off with my legs but—being Chris Chambers—he had thought of that too, holding my legs down with his right shin. I stared up at his grinning face, feeling beaten and waiting patiently for him to let me go. Our eyes locked and he paused…for a remarkably long time. I saw the skin of his forehead crinkle into something akin to confusion and he suddenly looked away, breaking eye contact, his cheeks slightly flushed from what—in my opinion—must have been the effort it had taken for him to keep me pinned down.

It was then that I saw the glimmer of opportunity and took my chance to get the better of him. Twisting my hands free from his grasp I grabbed the front of Chris's shirt, pulling him down to the floor and pulling myself upwards at the same time. After another few clever manoeuvres I had managed get on top of him in the same position as he had had me before. I took a moment to marvel at the fact that for once I had managed to best him, giving me a feeling of pride greater than any obtained from fancy A's in English class.

'Well, well Chrissy-poo,' I lorded over him. He wasn't looking at me and I let out a huff of annoyance. 'Sore loser much?'

It seemed those words hit home. 'Get off me Gordie,' he muttered and began to wrestle me away. I held tight. I wasn't keen to let my victory go so easily. Pushing my whole weight down on top of him I kept him in place as best I could.

'Get off me Gordie!' Chris repeated, though this time louder, angrier.

If I had been in a different state of mind and not so drunk to win I might have given in and let Chris go. But I was a kid and what kids didn't like to win? Hell, what people didn't like to win? However, at that moment, I had forgotten one simple fact. He was Chris Chambers and Chris Chambers always won.

'Off!' he yelled and shoved at me hard. I lost my balance and toppled to the side, hitting the back of my head on one of the wooden crates used as seating in the tree house. Pain shot through me and my eyes blurred as I became overcome with a sudden dizziness.

'What the fuck was that for?' I shook my head to clear my vision and touched the tender spot on my head with a wary hand. From the corner of my eye I could see Chris hurriedly crawl over to me, the anger gone completely from his features in a flash. Instead replaced with concern, the same concern as I had seen on his face the time I had awoken from my nightmare.

'I—I got caught up in the fight,' he said apologetically. He reached out a hand though it did not touch me. He just let it hover by the side of my head as if one of those invisible force fields written about in comic books was holding it back. 'You okay?'

I shrugged, letting go of the little annoyance I still had and saw his hand fall back down to his side. 'I'll live.' I couldn't stay annoyed at him for long anyway, I never could. Chris was good at that; his voice had a way to calm people, and it worked especially well for me. We fought but never for long or in any way seriously. We weren't best friends for nothing after all. 'So did I win?'

He looked over at me, eyebrows raised. 'I was distracted.'

'Yeah right,' I said, scoffing at his petty excuse. 'What distracted you?'

'You did.'

I stopped mid-way in massaging the back my head and stared at him. 'Huh?' I asked eloquently.

Chris blinked and shook his head. I wondered whether what he had said was another product of his thinking-out-loud habit, another one of his many thoughts spilling from his brain and accidentally forming words when they reached his tongue. Like his thoughts were pennies and his mouth was the torn hole in the bottom of his jean pocket. Nobody liked to lose money and Chris didn't like to lose his thoughts, he just hadn't been able to get himself a new pair of jeans.

'What's the time?' he asked quickly, changing the subject. I stared at him a second longer before giving up and obliging, looking down at my watch. It was just past seven in the morning, the time I normally woke up when I was at home. Pretty soon my mother would finish setting out the breakfast table and call for me to come down to eat.

'Seven,' I told him. He nodded and stood up, holding out his hand to me once he had gotten to his feet. Without hesitation I took it and let him pull me up. He did so easily, one yank of the arm muscles and I was stood there in front of him as if I had been there all my life.

'You headin' back?' he asked and I made a noise that was neither a yes nor a no. It was warmer now. The air was no longer filled with the chill of twilight but instead the tired tepidity of an actual morning.

'I suppose so,' I said after a while. I lifted my hand to run it through my hair only to find it still in Chris's grasp. He noticed at the same time I did and let go so fast that it seemed like he had been burnt by a hot poker, quickly shoving his hands in his pockets afterwards—a gesture too that, although meant to seem nonchalant, was riddled with the opposite.

'I'll see you then,' he said hurriedly and I nodded. He stepped to the side and I meandered past him, reaching down towards the tree house's trap door and heaving it open. It was too early in the morning to think about why Chris was being so strange. Maybe it was simply due to the fact that he was not a morning person.

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My parents hadn't noticed me coming down late for breakfast and I carried on my morning rituals the same way as I'd always done. It was as if the night in the tree house had never happened. If it hadn't been for the potatoes and meatloaf sitting stale on my bedroom desk I would've thought it had all been a dream.

I collected together my books and stationary, shoved them unceremoniously in my school bag and hitched the tattered strap of it upon my shoulder.

'Gordon,' I heard my mother call from the kitchen. 'Hurry or you'll be late for school. I can see that Chambers boy waiting for you by our gate.'

That Chambers boy…for some strange reason neither of my parents liked calling Chris by his first name. In fact I couldn't recall a moment when they ever had. It was always 'that Chambers boy' or 'that friend of yours' or sometimes even just 'him'. Even Chris doing college classes didn't sway my parents' opinion of him, especially not my father's.

'Yes ma,' I replied and rushed down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. I didn't bother to say goodbye when I swung open the front door. They didn't either.

Chris was standing by the gate just like my mother had said, leaning against its wooden frame with his eyes squinting in the sun. He had cleaned himself up since earlier that morning. He had on a different shirt, one that was still stained though not with flecks of dried blood, and his face and hair had been washed, though in a haphazardly manner. The bruises and cuts were still noticeable though, standing out like the sun in the sky, obvious and there and blazing. On his shoulder he had a bag similar to mine except more worn. The bag, the shirt and the slight dampness of his hair told me Chris must have gone home just as I had done and went about his morning rituals same as me. Almost the same.

'Shit,' I muttered and called for Chris to wait there for a second longer. He looked at me confused and I could see his mouth open to ask me why just as I turned right back around shoved open my front door. My mother was walking through the kitchen door just as I swerved right past her.

'What do you think you're doing, Gordon?' I heard her say. I could feel her eyes upon me as I grabbed four slices of toast and an apple from the kitchen table.

'I'm hungry,' I told her and she looked at me sceptically. She did not believe me but I didn't really care. She always prepared more food than she needed too, as if she was still cooking for Denny as well.

I pushed open the front door for the final time that morning and ambled my way towards a bemused-looking Chris, shoving the toasts and apple at his chest once I reached him. He instinctively grabbed a hold of them do they wouldn't fall to the dusty ground.

'What this?' he asked and I rolled my eyes.

'Breakfast, numbnuts,' I said. 'Eat up.'

He looked down at the food in his arms and then at me. I gave him a smile and he slowly returned with one of his own, a smile that, now in hindsight, seemed to say so much more than 'thanks for the grub'.

'What would you do without me, eh?' I said as he took a tentative bite out of a slice of toast.

'I have no fucking clue,' he replied in a tone more honest than I had expected. He offered me two pieces of toast but I shook my head, pushing the food away from me and back towards him. He insisted though, not taking another bite until I had finally accepted at least one of the pieces of toast. It was a compromise so I took it, glad to see that Chris stowed the apple I had given him away into his bag without a fuss.

We ate as we walked and got to school in good time. Chris and I were at our lockers when I heard someone call his name from across the hall.

'Hey Chambers!' I turned my head and saw a girl walking towards us. I recognised her vaguely, but only as another face in the crowd. She had long brown hair tied up in a side ponytail and a confident swagger in her stride. One could call her pretty if they ignored way her front teeth jutted out slightly and simply concentrated on the area around her bosom; the large amount of area around her bosom.

'Chambers, didn't ya hear me?' She was right next to us now, though she ignored me completely. Her big brown eyes focused solely on the back of Chris's head. He had not yet turned around to face her. It was only when I poked him in the side did he contemplate the girl's existence.

'Hey Becky,' he said. The name rung a bell in my mind but I couldn't quite place it.

'How come you've been avoidin' me?' The so-called Becky took a couple steps towards Chris, looking up at him in a way that seemed like she was looking down at him instead.

'I haven't been avoiding you,' Chris replied and I could hear the sigh in his voice, as well as the silent words of 'go away'. Becky, however, didn't, or if she did she didn't take much notice of them.

She scoffed and flicked at her ponytail. 'Yeah right,' she said. 'I don't fuckin' believe you Chambers, you're such a faggot.'

Chris scowled and his cheeks flushed red. 'Maybe if you get your fuckin' head out from your ass you'd be able to see it ain't as pretty as you think it is.'

Becky's face went even redder than Chris's and she stormed off without another word. Beside me Chris made a noise like a growl of irritation and slammed his locker door closed with a clang.

'So…' I began, 'what was that about?'

Chris looked at me as if he had forgotten I was there. 'Nothin',' he said after a while, with a casual shrug of his shoulders.

'Yeah right,' I said sceptically. 'Who was she? Becky who?'

'No one, it's not important. Just some girl I know.'

'Some girl? Since when did you know girls?' The words had slipped out of my mouth before I realised. I was pulling a Chris, speaking my thoughts out loud just like he did. Though for some reason when I did it, it seemed far worse.

'What do you mean?' Chris asked, placing a steady hand on my shoulder blade and lightly shoving me against my locker door. He glanced around the school hallway as if expecting people to be staring. The place was clear. It was almost time for the bell and most people were making their way to homeroom, the few stragglers that still remained weren't looking in our direction.

'Just that you don't know any girls,' I said, shrugging his hand off my shoulder and laughing. The laugh felt more nervous than I had wanted it to and so I cut it short, making it sound less like a laugh and more like a gasp for breath.

'The world doesn't revolve around you, Gordie,' he told me.

'I never said it did.' I didn't know what was wrong with Chris. He was acting weird, not all the time but just in strange bursts. Strange bursts of oddity, it was confusing the hell out of me.

'That was Becky Ramirez,' he said with an aggravated sigh. 'She's goin' out with Vern, remember what Teddy said yesterday?'

I paused a moment to think and then nodded. 'But what has she got to do with you?'

'She asked me out once. Before she went out with Vern.'

I gawked at him. 'How—why didn't you tell me?'

'Because I don't have to tell you everything, Gordie,' he answered, pulling me into one of his half-hugs in a motion of reconciliation. 'And it's not important anymore. I told her no.'

'She doesn't seem to like being told no,' I said, laughing and glad to feel that my laughter felt the way it should do once again.

'Well I don't give a shit. Girlfriends are stupid,' he replied. 'I'd rather just hang out with friends.'

My laughter grew and I reached up to ruffle his hair. He let out a whine but let me carry on messing up his hair. Chris wasn't one to care about his appearance; girls, however, did. I had to agree with him on that. Girlfriends were stupid.

'What friends are those?' I asked, teasingly. 'I'm your only friend.'

Chris shrugged. 'Well then I'd rather be with you. Better?'

My cheeks and ears went hot as blood rushed towards them for reasons I couldn't tell. I put it down as a random occurrence and ignored it until the flush subsided.

'Uh, yeah,' I mumbled. 'Better.' I slipped myself out from underneath his arm, which he had still had rested upon my shoulder blades from the half-hug earlier. 'We better hurry,' I told him. 'Or we'll get a tardy slip.'

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The school day went by like many school days before: uneventfully. Chris had told me he would come around to study ('Not matter what,' he had said reassuringly) as the last afternoon meant we were both slightly behind on work. Not enough for me to be worried but enough for Chris to be.

I waved goodbye to Chris from the gate and made my way up to the front door. I knocked twice and waited. There was no answer. I knocked a few times more and still the same thing. My mother must have been out in the back garden and so I let myself in with the spare key my parents had hidden under the geranium flowerpot on our front porch.

The note, written in my father's hand on white lined paper, had been pinned upon the wooden handrail of the staircase, right in front of the door so that when I entered I saw it immediately. Curious I walked up to it and read the words written in my father's rushed scrawl.

_Gordon, your mother has been in an accident. You don't need to come. Food is in the oven._

I read the note again. My school bag dropped from my shoulder and I read the note once more, my eyes rushing frantically through the letters in case I had missed some. But I hadn't, that was all it said. My mother had been in an accident. What accident? How did it happen? When did it happen? I had so many questions and no one was around to answer them. Where was she now? Probably in the hospital but where in the hospital? I didn't know and according to my father's note I didn't need to know. _You don't need to come_. But she was my mother!

_Food is in the oven._

That was the clincher right there. _Food is in the oven._ Your mother has been in an accident and food is in the oven. Just in case you're feeling at all peckish after that bit of news. Something bubbled in my lungs and I released it, shouting out loud to the emptiness of the house. I didn't shout anything in particular, mostly swears. In between my yells I ripped the note up, letting the pieces of torn paper fall like snowflakes to the floor.

Still screaming profanities I ran up to my room and slammed the door behind me. My mother was in an accident and I didn't need to be there, wherever she was I didn't need to be there. Like I wasn't part of the family. Like all I did was _eat_ there. I picked up the nearest thing to me, a Superman comic book on my desk, and threw it across the room. It fell quite calmly onto my bed, as if to tell me that even my anger at not being part of my own family was not significant enough. I yelled again and took another book—a heavier one this time, a hardback—and threw that too. It hit the wall with a satisfying bang, creating a tiny indenture in the plaster. I picked another book and threw that too. Aiming for the same spot but missing it by about a foot.

I gave up then, collapsing into a heap on the floor I sat, staring blanking out the window. I'm not sure how long I was sitting staring, nor what I thought about during it all. It was only when a small pebble hit the glass of my window did I snap out of my reverie. Chris. I glanced at my watch and it read five o' clock. He was early, really early.

I went to my window and slid it open. Chris had already begun to climb up the branches of the oak tree, movements swift and agile. I watched him do so until he reached the branch just opposite my window.

'You're early,' I told him quietly.

'Yeah, I know,' he said, equally as quietly. I moved aside and he climbed gracefully into my room, his feet landing on the floor with a soft thud.

'I heard about your mom,' he said.

'How?' I asked him. I tried to keep my voice from sounding choked but failed miserably.

'Eyeball said, as soon as I got home. It was Ace's car. He wasn't lookin' at the road and your mom was crossing and—' he stopped and I was glad he did, I didn't want to hear the details. I felt his hand gently touch my arm and a chill ran through me. 'I wasn't sure you'd be home,' he continued after a moment. 'I just needed to check.'

'Well I am home,' I replied. 'My dad he—he wrote a note…said I didn't need to see her.' I shook my head and scrunched my eyes closed tight, surprised to feel the wetness of tears behind my lids. 'But she's my mom, Chris. It's like he doesn't want me there but she's my mom! I need—I need—'

It was then I broke down. Like someone had unscrewed the tap and let the water just fucking flow. I lifted a hand to wipe angrily at the streaming tears but Chris pulled it back and pulled me into him, wrapping his arms around me in a tight yet comforting hold. I lay my head upon his shoulder and he rocked me slowly, his hand running lengths across my spine.

We stood like that for a while, me leaning into him and him holding me upright. I felt something soft touch me on the crown of my head but his hands were upon my back. I shifted so I could look up at him.

'Chris, did you just—'

'It doesn't matter,' he interrupted and he walked me towards my bed, sitting down on the mattress and bringing me with him, still holding me as if he were afraid to let me go. I realised that, for a brief instance, I had not been thinking about my mother. I was thinking about her again though. It pained me that Chris knew more about my mother's accident than I did myself. It wasn't right.

'Ace is going to pay,' I whispered into the cloth of Chris's shirt. 'I don't care if it was a fuckin' accident.'

'I'll make sure of it,' Chris said, his voice assuring. Then I felt it again, the soft touch on the top of my head.

'I'm not a faggot, Chris,' I said suddenly and felt his arms stiffen as they held me.

Another soft touch upon my head.

'I know.'

**_To be continued…_**

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I hope that was dandy enough for you guys. Like I said I've been a bit out of the writing essence as of late so I'm sorry if the pacing for this chapter seems a bit off in places.

Reviews are soul food.

Novem


	5. Not A Study Session

**Disclaimer:** 'Stand By Me' is the work of Rob Reiner and 'The Body' is from the mind of Stephen King.

**Warning:** This story will morph into something akin to slash. Chris/Gordie. No likey, no ready.

**Author's Note:** IT IS HERE! I'm sorry for the delay guys, very sorry indeed. As some of you may know, I went through I Harry Potter craze when the final book came out. But I have finally subdued that side of me, leaving it in a purring sleep in one corner of my mind—high on catnip. During that time I had forgotten how absolutely amazingly fun Chris and Gordie are—especially when together—and how much I adore writing this story. But I am back, and with a VENGENCE! Well, not really.

Enjoy the chapter!

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**Five – Not A Study Session**

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I didn't let myself cry for too long. Crying was a girl's thing, or at least that was what I believed back then at the age of fifteen. Plus, the warmth of Chris's embrace was beginning to get to me.

'I'm okay now,' I muttered, pushing myself away from Chris's hold. After a second he gave, letting his arms fall to his side.

'Our dads suck, right?' he said. Although I wasn't looking at him, I could tell from the strain in his voice that he was attempting a smile. I flicked my eyes upwards and saw that I was right, though that came as no surprise. I knew Chris, knew him as well as I knew myself—sometimes even better than I knew myself.

'Big time,' I replied, sniffing. I looked at Chris's shirt and could easily see where I had been crying. The thin white fabric just below Chris's left shoulder had gotten darker with my tears and, undoubtedly, my snot as well. The least I could do for him was let him borrow one of my shirts, seeing that I had ruined his. I stood up and I could feel his eyes follow me.

'Here,' I murmured, opening the chest of drawers by my bed and pulling out a badly folded shirt. I handed it to Chris, who looked at it as if it was about to eat him.

'I can't wear your shirt,' he said, unfolding it and holding it up in front of him. I wondered whether he still felt self-conscious about his bruises. The ones on his chest couldn't be much worse than the one that decorated his face.

'Of course you can,' I told him with a roll of my eyes. 'I ruined your shirt with my snot.' I made sure to leave out 'and tears'.

'Yeah but…' Chris began, and I saw him begin to smirk, 'this shirt's tiny. There's no way it'll fit over my big, manly muscles.'

I picked up the pillow from the head of my bed and threw it at Chris with an annoyed grunt. However he had pre-empted me, like he always did, and dodged to the side, laughing.

It was then that I heard a call from downstairs and the slam of the front door. Chris stopped laughing immediately and his body seemed to shrink into the shadows, something he managed to do even in the brightness of my room.

'Gordon!' My father's voice rose up the stairs. Turning to Chris, I gave him a look to tell him not to make a sound. He nodded and I opened my bedroom door, closing it behind me and taking a step onto the upper floor landing.

'Yeah,' I replied. I took a step forward and looked down, seeing the face of father staring up at me. His brows were crossed into a frown that further wrinkled his face.

'What's this?' he asked gruffly, pointing down at the floor.

Leaning over the banister, I peered down to where he was pointing. There, on the floor, were the remains of my father's note. The note I had ripped up in my anger.

My father didn't bother waiting for an answer. 'For God's sake, Gordon!' he yelled. 'Your mother has broken her leg. You don't expect her to come and clean up your stupid mess, do you?'

'I'll clean it up now Dad,' I said, rushing down the stairs. Even through my father's dagger gazes, I couldn't help but feel relieved. A broken leg was bad but not as bad as it could've been. If she died too… I couldn't bear thinking about it. It would just be me and my father left. I would be left with a father who despised me, and he would be left with a son who knew it.

I picked up each piece of ripped up paper one at a time. I did it so slowly that my father gave up on watching over me. He walked with slow precision to the kitchen, his figure disappearing from my peripheral view when he banged the kitchen door shut.

I wanted to ask him why my mother, if she only had broken leg, wasn't home yet. However I was in no mood to face him, no mood to have him stare at me as if I were some unwelcome guest.

Sighing, I plucked up the last remaining piece of paper from the floor and carried them with me upstairs to my room, like I was carrying with me the dead body of a pet hamster—or something equally as ridiculous.

Chris had moved from my bed to sit on the windowsill, leaning against the window frame, eyes half closed, as if he had been there all his life.

'Mom only has a broken leg,' I told him, the pieces of paper still in my hands. I made my way over to the window, feeling Chris's eyes on me as I did so, and threw the pieces of paper out of it. There was probably some symbolic reason as to why I did that; however, even if there was, I was fifteen at the time and I didn't really give much of a shit about symbolism.

'Yeah,' Chris said, 'I heard.'

I didn't live in a very fancy house. My house had two stories, which was pretty good, and I didn't have to go to some rickety outhouse in the back garden to do a number two, we had a toilet built inside the house. But our walls and floors were pretty thin. The thinness of them was obvious now. I could hear the sound my father slamming cupboard doors through the floorboards. That was the way he let out his anger, by slamming doors and shouting at me. I suppose it was better than having it the other way round.

'So when's your mom coming back?' Chris asked when I didn't say anything further.

I shrugged, lifting myself on the windowsill too. Chris shifted so I could sit opposite him, bringing my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. 'I didn't ask.'

Chris cleared his throat. 'Look…' he began, and I did look. I lifted my head to look up at him, just as he had said. But apparently that was not what he had meant by the word because he hastily turned his head to the side so that he was staring out to the horizon beyond my bedroom window. '…About before, when you were cr—when we were sat on your bed.'

I nodded, pretending not the notice the slip of his tongue.

'I--,' Chris seemed to be having difficulty getting his words out. 'I'm not… I'm not a faggot either, Gordie' he finished, rushed.

'I never sai—'

'Gordon!' My father's shouting voice stunted my reply. For once I was glad of my old man's interruption.

Jumping off the windowsill, I ran to my bedroom door and opened it a crack. 'Yeah?' I called.

'I'm going to go back to the hospital to visit your mother,' he called back. 'Food is still in the oven.' I heard the front door slam closed and I knew my father was gone.

I felt a worming feeling inside of me. A little voice in my head once again reminding me that my father hadn't even offered to invite me along with him to visit my own mother. Another little voice told me that, perhaps, if I run, I could reach him before he drove away, and I could ask to see my mother. A third little voice asked me whether I really wanted to do that. Finally, my own voice, replied to all the other ones with a very simple, mental _Fuck you all_!

I turned around and almost sprang out of my own skin to find that Chris had been standing behind me.

'You know what, Gordie?' he said, running a hand through his dirty blond hair. He took a step forward and I took a step back. There was a muffled bang as my heel touched the wood of the door. Chris half chuckled and half sighed. 'I think I'm gonna go.'

'What? Why?' I didn't see why he had to go. It was far too early for him to leave.

'Fine then,' Chris muttered. He lifted his hand and pressed it against the part of the door just above my right shoulder, putting some weight on it as he leant forward. 'Tell me why I should stay.' He was so close now that I could feel his warm breath on my cheek and see my own reflection in his green and blue kaleidoscope eyes.

'I, uh…' Now it was my turn to have difficulty getting my words out. I swallowed the ridiculous amount of saliva that had built up in my mouth and tried again. 'We, I mean, we need to study.'

As soon as I said that, Chris pushed himself away from me and wandered to the aimlessly to the middle of my bedroom, both his hands clutching loosely at strands of his hair. I let out a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding, and relaxed the muscles of my shoulder, muscles I hadn't realised had been tensed.

'Fuckin' hell Gordie,' he said in one long breath, his arms swinging like a pendulum back down to his sides. 'Alright.' He moved to kick at my bedpost but then thought better of it. 'Alright, let's fuckin' study.'

I watched in a dazed state as Chris went to sit at the desk. He didn't do anything else, didn't bother getting out any books or pens or paper, he just sat there, as if admiring the shoddy woodwork.

'Chris?' I asked. I walked over to him and carefully rested my hand on his shoulder. I felt his muscles tighten up. 'Um, what do you want to study?'

'Math,' he said in a tone of voice that suggested he had just plucked the subject word out of the air.

'Oh, okay.' I lifted my hand from his shoulder and picked up my school bag from the foot of my bed. I took out my math textbook from it and dropped it on the desk in front of Chris. 'What topic?'

In one fluid motion, Chris flipped the book open to what seemed like a random page. 'This topic.'

I took a seat in the stool beside him and switched on the desk lamp.

I looked at the page he had chosen. 'Trigonometry?'

'Yeah.'

'But Chris… you're okay at Trigonometry.' It was true. Although Chris had been slow on the uptake during the school lessons but as soon as I had retold him the basics later that same day he caught on almost immediately.

'I'm okay?' Chris laughed. It was a laugh that seemed entirely hollow in my ears. 'Christ Gordie, sometimes I'd like to be just a little bit better than okay. Okay?'

He turned to look at me and I felt as if his eyes were piercing right through me. I was taken aback back the anger I saw in his irises. I was even more taken aback by the anger I suddenly felt inside of me, or at least something very similar to anger.

'Bullshit,' I said, seething. I stood up and knocked the stool I had been sitting on to the floor in the process. 'You're better than okay in lots of stuff. You're faster than me, stronger than me—'

'As if all that piss shit matters,' he interrupting, standing up too. 'I'm not as clever as you, Gordie. I can't make stories up like you can.'

'Stories are for pussies and faggots,' I retorted.

Suddenly Chris grabbed at the collar of my shirt and shoved me roughly against the wall. 'Stop saying fuckin' shit like that!' he said through gritted teeth. His hand that wasn't holding onto my shirt collar was pressing against my hip, pressing against the small slither of bare flesh just below the hem of my shirt and just above the top of my denim jeans.

'Why the hell not?' I yelled, trying to ignore the placement of his hand.

'Because, you fuckwit,' he said, a finger slowly lifting my shirt fabric to allow the other fingers to roam underneath it, 'because you're better than name calling.'

The hand grasping my collar loosened its grip, but it wasn't that hand I was thinking about. 'Y-you just called me a fuckwit.'

'I never said I was better than name calling.' Chris's voice was getting softer, his hand now fully submerged under the folds of my shirt. I gasped and began to involuntarily close my eyes. Then I realised I had no idea what the fuck was happening.

'Chris!' I had intended to shout but his name came out of my mouth in a whisper. Fuck, what the hell was his hand doing? 'Wh—what—'

'Be quiet, Gordie.'

The thing was, however, that Chris didn't give me any choice on the matter. As soon as those words left his lips, his lips met mine. Well not really _met_, more like _crashed against_.

Chris pushed me harder against the wall and pushed his lips harder against mine. Pushing so hard I could feel the warm trickle of blood. If my mind had been capable of rational thought at the time I would have known that the blood had come from the partially healed cut on Chris's lips cracking open. But my mind was not capable of any thought except to open my mouth when I felt Chris's slick, wet tongue touch my lips.

Chris's tongue roamed into my mouth. The hand underneath my shirt clenched into a fist that pressed against my chest. The hand at my collar slid behind my neck, sending a shiver like electricity down my spine.

I had never kissed a girl before, let alone another boy. I couldn't tell whether what I was doing was right, or whether what Chris was doing was right. Then I remembered that of course it _wasn't_ fucking right.

I lifted my hands—which had previously been lying dormant at my side—and placed them on Chris's chest. Then, with more effort than I had ever thought it would require, I pushed him away with as much strength as I could muster. I felt drained, exhausted, like I had been running a marathon, but I pushed, wrenching my head to the side in the process, thus turning my lips away from Chris's.

I was breathing heavily, inhaling ice and exhaling flames—or at least that was what it felt like.

'Fuck,' Chris whispered. 'Fuck,' he said again, this time louder. 'FuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK!' He removed his hands from around my neck and under my shirt and then—tied in with another 'FUCK!'—I heard a slam as he punched his fist against the wall.

I finally opened my eyes too see that Chris had moved away from me. He was clasping a hand that had knuckles grazed a raw red.

Normally I would have rushed over to him to see if he was okay. But normality had shifted somewhat now that my best friend had kissed me—my best _male_ friend.

I brought a hand to my mouth tentatively. Licking my lips, I tasted the sweetly metallic mixture of Chris's saliva and blood.

'You should have let me go.' Chris was looking at the floor, or perhaps at his scraped knuckles. I couldn't tell which, a curtain of his hair hid his eyes from view. I could, however, see his mouth. His lips were red from the kiss, and they were made even redder by the blood that had been smeared from his cut. He was licking his lips too, like I had been doing before.

Then, before I could stop him, he darted to my bedroom window and, with a masculine grace that only Chris Chambers could obtain; he leaped onto the tree branch. He didn't say goodbye, he didn't say another word; and neither did I.

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My parents came back home a few minutes later. I ran down the stairs when I heard the door open, anxious to see my mother. Or maybe I was just anxious to push Chris's kiss out of my mind. It was most likely a mixture of both.

My mother had a cast on her leg when she entered; she was being supported by both a pair of crutches and by my father.

As soon as she saw me, she gasped. 'Is that blood on your lips?'

My eyes widened and I touched my lips, bringing my hand to my eyes to see red upon my fingertips. 'It's strawberry syrup,' I said hurriedly, rubbing my mouth with the back of my hand.

'Where did you get strawberry syrup?' my father questioned gruffly with raised eyebrows.

'It was a friend at school's birthday today,' I lied. 'He was giving out candy filled with strawberry syrup.' Quickly, to switch the attention away from myself, I asked my mother if she was okay.

'I'm fine, dear,' she said. 'It was your friend's birthday? Why didn't you get him a present?'

My mother seemed excited by the fact that I had a friend who wasn't Chris.

'He's not that close a friend,' I told her, shrugging in as noncommittal way as possible.

'Oh.' My mother frowned. 'You know, you should at least try to make friends, dear.' This time her 'dear' sounded harsher than before.

Like always my mother disregarded Chris as a friend of mine. After what had happened only minutes before, I wasn't even sure I could regard Chris as a friend anymore. I dreaded school the next day.

'Move out of the way Gordon and let your mother rest.' I did as my father said.

**_To be continued…_**

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Well… I hope you enjoyed it…

Remember, reviews mean more of -cough-Chris/Gordie-kissing-cough- what you love.

Novem


	6. The Great Divide

**Disclaimer:** 'Stand By Me' is the work of Rob Reiner and 'The Body' is from the mind of Stephen King.

**Warning:** This story features slash. Chris/Gordie. No likey, no ready.

**Author's Note:** So I know I've been gone. For a while. A hell of a while. Two years in fact. But I'm back now and that's all that counts right? Right? DON'T KILL ME!

-&-

-&-

**Six – The Great Divide**

-&-

Since I hadn't eaten the food placed for me in the oven, my father took the liberty of eating it for me.

'Here,' he said, rummaging into his wallet—the same old, leather wallet he had been using for the past fifteen years, and probably even longer most likely. He shoved a handful of rusty quarters into my palm. 'You can buy some food from the shop. Your mother isn't going to be cooking today.'

I had guessed as much. Nodding, I left the kitchen without the word.

There was a convenience store three blocks down the street from my house. Three blocks and then a left turn once you reached the gas station to be more precise. I plotted the route out in my mind with almost perfect accuracy as I walked. I knew, without even looking, that there was a dent in the signpost across the street where Ace Mirrell crashed into it with his car two years ago. I knew, without a shred of doubt, that in a dozen or so more steps I'd reach a nick in the pavement that had caught Vern out too many times to count in the past, and probably still did.

These were the streets of Castle Rock and I knew them so well. Although, in all honesty, it wasn't all that difficult to know a place like Castle Rock well—the smallest of small town U.S.A. Nobody outside of here gave a shit about us and we didn't give a shit about nobody. Who was the current Secretary of State? Fuck knows; some guy called Don, Dave, whatever. But did you hear that some no good kids let off a bunch of stink bombs outside the diner this morning? Made quite a stench it did.

Fifteen years of living your life small you start to think small just so you can fit. Not Chris Chambers though. He thought big, making me think big just by association…

Then I realised that it was no use. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I attempted to concentrate on mediocre things like the simple route from my house to the convenience store, my thoughts kept on finding their way back to Chris. I couldn't get him out of my mind. And for good reason too. They say you never forget your first kiss.

'Fuck!'

My left foot had caught on that fateful nick in the pavement and brought me down to the floor. It was only thanks to that wonderful thing called 'somatic reflexes'—taught to me about a week ago in Biology class—that I hadn't fallen flat on my face. My hands, however, received quite a scraping from the dry concrete.

I pushed myself up to a sitting position on the sidewalk to examine the damage. Specs of dirt had matted with the blood seeping slowly from scrapes on the heels of my hands. I pursed my lips and tried carefully to blow them away but they stuck fast. I could use that as an analogy, which my English professors would probably recommend me doing. I could write something like how the dirt was stuck on my hands like Chris was stuck in my mind. Except I don't want to go comparing Chris to dirt, too many people do that already.

In the end I had bought from the convenience store a bag of chips, a wiener with a bun to put it in, and a couple of Band-Aids for my hands.

I didn't want to go home yet. Normally in such a situation I would have called on Chris's house and together we would wander the town until the streetlamps came on. Then at dusk we'd meander slowly back to my place. I'd enter my house through the front door and he'd enter in less than a minute later through my bedroom window. Maybe he'd even sleep over, curled up under a spare blanket on my bedroom floor.

During winter, when we were both younger, Chris would sometimes get into bed with me and we'd sleep side by side. Never top to tail, Chris didn't like feet and I had to agree that they weren't the prettiest of bodily appendages. We carried on in this way until the implications of faggotry (a word never to be placed in the Webster Dictionary despite its obviously common and everyday uses) divided us into separate sleeping areas of my room.

What greater implication of faggotry was there than sleeping in the same bed as another guy?

And of course the small voice in the back of my head reminded me, as it was wont to do, _I don't know, maybe kissing another guy?_

But he kissed _me_. I silently told myself that that was the main point. He kissed me and I hadn't kissed back; which meant, undoubtedly, that I wasn't a faggot. No implications of faggotry there on my part, just a victim of an unfortunate circumstance.

No doubt you'd think I'd be relieved on figuring that simple thing out. In small towns like Castle Rock there wasn't a much worse thing to be than a stickin' faggot (except maybe a fuckin' faggot). However I could still feel this dark weight inside, plummeting first from my throat to my sternum and then sinking slowly down right into the very depths of me.

It was a strange sensation I had never felt before. A mixture of guilt, loneliness, fear and something else I couldn't quite pinpoint; and I was sure as hell dreading school the next day.

But of course the more you dread something the faster it comes galloping towards you.

I woke up the next morning with a dry mouth and slightly red and puffy eyes. As I brushed my teeth I stared at the mirror in front of me, slowly prodding at the soft flesh of my face with my free hand. I pulled at the skin of my cheek and watched as it snapped back on release with the elasticity of youth. My reflection might have said otherwise, but I felt a great deal older than a measly adolescent fifteen years.

I cooked breakfast for the whole family that morning—fried eggs and bacon. My mother's leg didn't allow much movement and she was still getting used to walking with crutches.

'You should invite that friend of yours over for dinner tonight,' I heard her say over the sizzling of the frying pan.

'Who?' I asked, confused.

'That boy whose birthday it was yesterday,' she said. I looked over my shoulder to see her looking back at me with something like hope—but not quite—in her eyes.

'Oh,' I said hurriedly, suddenly remembering the lie I had told her yesterday afternoon. I made a mental note to keep better track of my lies for future occasions. 'I said he isn't that good a friend.'

'Well…' my mother began but my father interjected from where she had previously sat silently at the breakfast table.

'Whose going to cook anyway with your leg like that and your head half-pumped with painkillers eh?' he asked rhetorically and the conversation quickly ended there.

I did not walk with Chris to school that day. I didn't even bother to wait for him like I would have normally done if I didn't find him standing right outside the house upon closing front door behind me. Selfish, I know, cowardly too. But I justified my actions by thinking that maybe Chris would have walked to school alone as well, and that, if I had waited for him, I would have been waiting forever. However when I reached homeroom and sat in my seat waiting to be registered I noticed Chris was nowhere to be seen.

I chewed anxiously at loose skin on my bottom lip, my eyes fixed on the classroom door. Perhaps he was just running a bit late. As long as he arrived before Mr Peters—our homeroom tutor—did then it would be okay. Yet less than a minute after that very thought Mr Peters entered the room, in all his corpulent and moustached glory.

Mr Peters had a school-wide reputation of being strict. Anyone, Chris especially, who entered homeroom even a split second after him would get an immediate L for Late. If you didn't show up for the whole of homeroom then it would be an A for Absent. I sat through fifteen nerve-wrecking minutes of morning registration and daily school news and realised Chris would be getting an A. Homeroom was the only time in which a teacher would willingly, almost happily, give Chris an A.

It never occurred to me that Chris would skip school entirely. He only ever did so when his old man had given him a bad beating; and for one brief nearly non-existent moment—one that I'm ashamed to admit—I hoped that it was because of his old man that Chris wasn't at school and not because of me.

-&-

'No Mr Chambers I see…' It was third period English and Mrs Maycombe could barely contain her hen-like cluck of amusement as she said those words. She was looking past me to the empty desk behind mine—Chris' desk. Her eyes inevitably then darted to me.

'Mr Lachance, I don't suppose you know where Mr Chambers could be?' she asked, eyebrow raised.

'I don't suppose I do,' I replied.

I kept my head low; my eyes fixed on the rude words of generations of school children etched in my desk as I waited for Mrs Maycombe's attention to shift away from me. It did when a girlish pair of giggles erupted from the corner of the classroom. Laced in between those giggles were the barely concealed words: 'I bet Becky does.'

Becky? Who was Becky? The name rang a bell in the back of my mind but I couldn't quite place it. I had never been that good with names; or with faces for that matter. I'm still not. I later learnt in my college years that this was a common personality trait of the stereotypical self-absorbed and introverted writer, trapped in their own world and oblivious to the real one. Go figure.

The girls began whispering again and I twisted slightly in my chair, straining to hear them. I couldn't catch much. Every now and then girl number one would respond with giggling gasps to what girl number two had said, and at these moments I could see girl number two nodding knowingly from the corner of my eye. Sometimes I could catch a few words of their conversation: the mysterious 'Becky' popped up many times, along with 'Chambers'. My curiosity grew.

'Look,' I heard girl number two say, louder this time. 'Little Lachance is listening in.'

_Shit_. I snapped my head back to face the front, a flush of blood rising to my cheeks. I had been caught eavesdropping into the mystical whisperings of the girl clan. I was the fat kid with his hand in the forbidden cookie jar.

I didn't attempt to listen to the two girls' conversation for the rest of the period. I assumed they had switched from whispering to the more cautious method of passing notes.

The bell for break rang and I began collecting up the miniscule amount of work I had done in class, shoving the scraps of paper into my bag. It was then I had felt a tap on my shoulder, followed by a familiar wave of giggles.

'Hey Lachance,' girl number one said as I turned to face her and her ally.

'Hey…' I replied, unable to hide the sense of foreboding in my voice.

The girls looked at each other and giggled again, which I now gathered to be a rather common exchange between the two.

'Tell Chambers that Becky says she had fun last night.' At those words they linked arms and giggled their way out of the classroom.

At first I was in a state of shock, my eyes staring blankly at the backs of the two girls and my brain trying to process what they had said. _Fun last night..._ they must not have got the right day. After all Chris had been with me last night, right up until... well right up until he left. He could have done anything after he left. He could have been anywhere, and with anyone.

A sharp pang of something indistinguishable welled up from the pit of my stomach as I finally remembered the name Becky. Becky Ramirez. Teddy had said she was Vern's girl, supposedly at least. And I had fucking met her only just yesterday too. Shit, I sure was bad at placing names with faces; but it was all coming back to me now.

Big-eyed, big-breasted Becky. I remembered her now.

But Chris wouldn't have. He couldn't have. He didn't even fucking like her!

'Lachance!' Mrs Maycombe's harsh voice jolted me from my thoughts. I looked up at her and she pointed towards the door. 'Get going boy.'

Lifting my school bag to my shoulder I did as she said, my brain still awash with thoughts of Chris and Becky. Or, more succinctly, Chris _with_ Becky.

The school corridor was teeming with other students and I had to elbow my way through the crowds in order to get to my locker. I was putting in the combination when I felt yet another tap on my shoulder—I sure was popular today—a tap so forceful I may as well have called it a jab.

'What?' I almost yelled, half surprising myself as to how suddenly annoyed I was—not just at the person behind me but at life in general.

Then I saw him, in all his six foot glory, Vern Tessio.

When Vern turned fifteen he had one hell of a growth spurt, the puppy fat of his youth acting as a fuel supply as his height rocketed upwards. Now, instead of his previous child-like chub, Vern had himself layers of meaty bulk that was a mixture of fat and muscle. If it weren't for his extreme lack of coordination Vern would have undoubtedly found himself on defence in the high school football team. Despite his immense height, however, Vern still had the face of his eleven-year-old self.

I could tell he was trying to look menacing but it wasn't quite working, at least not on me. Hell, I used to give him wet willies only three years back. I could still see a tiny flash of innocence in Vern's eyes.

'Where's Chambers?' he said. It seemed that was all everyone wanted to ask me these days.

'Uh... hey Vern,' I said in some sort of attempt at pleasantries. 'I have absolutely no idea where Chris is.'

Vern seemed physically taken aback by my reply, obviously thinking that me not knowing where Chris was was a crime against the very fabric of existence. He deflated somewhat, his large shoulders hunched as he seemed unsure of what to do next. I slammed closed the door of my locker, the noise of which seemed to jolt Vern back into the world of the living.

'Shit,' he said, slowly and quietly, 'I don't know what to do.' I wasn't surprised by this comment as Vern was never the sort who knew what do to. Yet his words this time, however, resonated with much more self-pity than usual, and I had a feeling I knew why.

'Is it to do with Becky?' I asked cautiously, hoping that it wasn't and altogether knowing that it was.

'Yeah...' Vern replied, his child-like eyes lowered to stare down at his dirty brown sneakers. He didn't say anything else so I pried further, my curiosity getting the better of me.

'Is it to do with Becky _and_ Chris?'

Vern nodded, scuffing his shoes upon the floor.

'Is it to do with Becky _with_ Chris?'

Vern nodded and then finally, after a few seconds of mere heavy breathing, he spoke. 'She broke up with me last night,' he said, his voice a whimper. The innocent voice of the Vern I used to know. 'She said she found someone who could actually get it up.' He blushed at those words, obviously not meaning to have said them. He looked at me, obviously expecting me to make some sort of snide remark. When I didn't he looked relieved. 'She said she was with Chambers.'

And there it was, the confirmation of what Chris had actually done after he had left. Of course I had assumed as much but to have it told to me so bluntly, and so earnestly by Vern, made the truth of it all sink in so much further. I tried to say something but the words choked my throat and I felt sick to my stomach.

'You okay?' Vern asked warily. 'You look ill. You should get yourself checked up 'cos you may have a bug. I got one from eating the cafeteria burgers last month. I couldn't even look at another burger for a whole two hours, let alone eat one until later in the afternoon.'

Vern's words of wisdom went straight by me. I grunted something akin to a reply then turned away from him, heading to the nearest exit. I could hear Vern calling behind me that the nurse's office was in the other direction but I ignored him. I wasn't going to the nurse's office, or to the cafeteria now that lunch break had begun. I was just getting the hell out of school.

I didn't know where I could go or what I could do but I knew for certain that I couldn't face sitting in the cafeteria alone with the images of Becky and Chris going through my head. How could he do that? Especially straight after what he had done to me... when he _kissed_ me. Was he just horny? Did just want to get some no matter the gender? Did he think so little of me that he could happily pick me up and drop me just like that for some fucking female pussy? Not that I wanted anything like that. Of course not! I didn't know what the hell I wanted.

Why did Chris have to fuck everything up?

I knew the only way to answer these questions that plagued my mind was to find Chris and ask him directly. I was seething, my thoughts clouded with a combination of emotions that I had never felt altogether at once. Anger, betrayal, envy, hate and a deep bitter sadness. It sounded like a fucking movie poster staring Humphrey Bogart and his latest broad. When did my life turn into such a drama?

I headed down the dusty street and away from the school, my feet making their own path towards Chris's house. I didn't know what I would do when I got there. Punch him most likely, and revel in the physical satisfaction that it would give me.

After ten minutes of stomping angrily along the empty road I finally came to the dilapidated shithole the Chambers family called a house. It was there that I stopped, just beyond the broken fence, my feet now completely void of movement.

_He probably won't even be in_, I told myself as my heart began to beat at a pace too rapid for comfort. I knew what Chris was like and how he would spend as much time as possible away from his house. But that was the old Chris, the one that was the closest friend I had in the world. The Chris who wouldn't kiss me for no explicable reason and then go off and fuck some stupid bitch. Did I even know him as well as I always thought I did? Did I know him at all?

With that thought I turned away from his house, making my way back in the same direction I came.

'What are you doing here?'

I knew that voice, knew it so well that I would be able to distinguish it in a sea of other voices, an ocean even. I looked up and saw him, Chris, standing there in the middle of the street, a grocery bag held in his arms. I gaped at him, my mouth opening and closing like some retarded fish as I tried to search for words in my now completely empty cerebrum.

Not waiting for my answer Chris moved past me and hopped over the fence, not even bothering to use the broken gate, and pushed open the front door of his house. His nonchalance brought my initially seething anger storming back into the forefront and I rushed after him, not allowing him to close the door before I got into the house behind him..

'What the fuck do you think I'm doing here?' I said, not caring about the volume of my voice.

Dropping the grocery bag on a moth-eaten couch Chris turned to me, his eyes blazing. 'Fucking hell Gordie how should I know? You're lucky no one's in right now otherwise my old man would be storming in here, fists fucking flailing, and I'd be left with only one eye to see out of, if I'm even that lucky!'

'I heard you already _got_ lucky,' I said, my voice as laced with venom as I could possibly make it. Chris was taken aback by my words, his reply taking a few seconds longer than it should have done.

'What are you talking about?' he muttered, breaking eye contact.

'You know fucking well,' I said, taking a step towards him. I could see him flinch at my movement and my anger rose further. 'Vern told me you were with Becky Ramirez last night.' Chris tensed and I took that as a sign that it was true. Taking another step towards him, anger burning my very skin, I pushed him forcefully so that his back hit the wall.

Chris staggered but quickly regained his composure. After a few seconds that seemed like hours his eyes finally met mine again and I could see the anger piercing through them was equal, if not greater, than my own.

'What's it to you?' he said, pushing me back and causing my ankle to bang painfully against the leg of a battered coffee table. I managed to stop myself from falling.

'Oh like you don't fucking know,' I shouted, shoving him again. Inexplicably tears had begun to well in my eyes but I quickly blinked them away. 'Don't you even remember what you did to me!'

'You stupid shit,' Chris shouted in return, yanking the collar of my shirt in a manner that was far too familiar. He obviously noticed the familiarity of the gesture as well and quickly released his grip, turning his head towards the side. 'I thought you'd want to fucking forget it. _"Let's be friends"_ and all that shit.'

I stared at him, unable to reply as I had no idea what he was going on about. Chris didn't pay attention to my lack of response and continued talking.

'Oh Gordie and Chris. Best fucking friends forever. Yeah. Forever. Right...' he was ranting now, pacing up and down the small room like some deranged lunatic. 'Fuck forever! I don't fucking want to be _friends_ forever...'

What was he saying? What the fuck was he talking about? Did he not want to be friends with me anymore now that he hand some stupid slut to fuck whenever he wanted? Had our friendship really been that meaningless? Then, in one swift motion, I let my anger take a hold of me and, primarily, my right fist, and I landed one hard punch on the left side of Chris's face.

His ranting stopped immediately. Taking a staggered step back from the impact Chris raised a hand to touch the tender flesh that had been under where my fist used to be.

'Shit...' I muttered, my anger vanishing from me as I ran my left hand across the red knuckles on my right fist. I had never hit Chris before, or at least not seriously. We had play-fought when we were younger but it was all done in a way that completely lacked malice. But this time I had hit him, and I had properly meant it. I looked up at him, seeing the shock expression that still hung upon his features.

'Shit I'm sorry,' I said, tentatively moving towards him and reaching out to touch the place I had hit. 'I'm so sorry Chris I didn't mean--'

Before I could finish my sentence, however, Chris grabbed a hold of my wrist with one hand and the fabric of my shirt with another. Then, in one fluid motion, he twisted our positions so it was me who ended up with my back against the wall.

'Look Chris,' I said, my voice shaking. 'I can understand you're angry but honestly I didn't mean to hit you. I was just so angry at you as well and it just fucking happened--'

'You know what else just fucking happened?' he asked, cutting my sentence off again.

I shook my head and attempted to swallow a lump that had lodged itself in my throat.

'This.'

And with that he kissed me for the second time in less than twenty four hours.

_**To be continued…**_

-&-

Novem


	7. Memory Rails

**Disclaimer:** 'Stand By Me' is the work of Rob Reiner and 'The Body' is from the mind of Stephen King.

**Warning:** This story features slash. Chris/Gordie. No likey, no ready.

**Author's Note:** Jeez, that sure took a long time. I had pretty much forgotten that I was even writing this and I apologise. Really, I do. You can't trust a fanfiction writer, can you? I sort of didn't know where the story was going and I lost track of things; plus real life, as per usual, takes priority over Internet life. I must say though: THANK YOU FOR ALL THE ABOSOLUTELY AMAZING REVIEWS! They reminded me that people were still reading and enjoying Beyond Back Harlow Road, even though I had pretty much left it for dead. Your reviews made me fall in love with Chris and Gordie again, urging me to continue writing. Reviewers feed the flames of fanfiction; you're the ones who stopped me from giving up. Again, I'm sorry for how long this took. I hope you enjoy the following chapter. Perhaps, if you want, you can give me some ideas for the progression of the story.

**Seven – Memory Rails**

When I was young I wrote a poem for an elementary school English assignment. The subject was about rainy days (Castle Rock was going through a pretty heavy wet spring at the time and barely a day went by without a flood warning or two hovering on the radio waves) and I had gotten a gold star, my very first gold star in fact, for my efforts. All I can remember of the poem are the opening few lines, which went sort of like this:

_The rain falls and I have to stay_

_Inside until it all dries up._

_But when it's dry I go to play_

_And collect more feathers for my wings._

My teacher thought it was all incredibly creative imagery for an eight-year-old, though little did she know that I had meant every word of it in earnest. If I collected enough feathers, according to my little eight-year-old mind, I would finally be able to fly, just like the birds that danced amongst the clouds above Castle Rock. That part of my life has gone now, my feather collection lost in time and turned to dust, as childhood dreams so often do, and I never did get to make my wings.

Chris had always been the one to come along with me during my feather hunts. The two of us collecting them together, placing each one we found in our own respective containers (an empty shoebox for me and an empty tobacco tin for him). I had asked him on the eve of his fifteenth birthday, whilst we were both in a state of nostalgia for the past, whether he still had his feathers. Smiling, Chris nodded his reply, telling me that he had buried the rusted tobacco tin out in his garden in the dead of night, and that he checked back every now and then to see whether it was still there. I had laughed at the time, asking him why he even bothered to keep them.

'Nobody's going to take my wings,' was his reply.

* * *

Chris slammed me back against the wall once more, one hand still clenched tightly around my wrist and the other pushed hard against my chest. The kiss, however, was not as forceful as it had been the evening before, though it was still laced with the same angry urgency. Though Chris's lips were still cracked and rough against mine his movements were slower, as if testing the waters for my reaction—a reaction that was taking me far too long to procure.

Being kissed by your best friend once was one thing, a fluke maybe—an obscure accident of the senses. But being kissed a second time seemed to suggest some sort of pattern and an ever increasing possibility of a third time, then a fourth, and then who knows... If I wanted to stop such a chain of events from occurring then I needed to nip the whole kissing thing in the bud. Maybe then everything would revert back to the default state of just friends, as that was all it was and all I ever wanted it to be. Wasn't it?

But then Chris broke the kiss off whilst I was still in the midst of my thoughts. I felt a twinge pinch against the area between my throat and my heart as his lips parted from mine.

'I-I-' I began, my words a stutter of open-ended vowels. 'I-I've never been kissed before...' I let the remainder of the sentence hang in the air, embarrassed to say the last three-letter word to finish it off: _you_.

Chris laughed quietly though I had no idea what he could have possibly found so funny.

'I've never _not_ been kissed back before...' he replied, loosening the firm grip that he had on my wrist. Letting out a small breath he stepped back from me and I almost stepped with him, as if pulled by some sort of gravity, catching myself just in time to prevent it. The gap that formed between us was obviously nothing if not a good thing, or at least that's what I kept telling myself, though the empty air never felt quite so cold before.

The heat of a blush reddened my cheeks at his comment and the curious part of my brain niggled me with the question of who else he had kissed, and when exactly had he kissed them? I was Chris's best friend, or at least I was supposed to be, yet he had never told me about the girls he's been with, no matter how much I asked. I wasn't stupid; I knew Chris was a lot more experienced in 'that area' than I was. He was a good-looking guy and many girls were easily taken in by his bad boy charm, squealing at the way a single strand of dirty blond hair would fall over his eyes and melting when he would flick it back oh so nonchalantly. And what about me? I was gangly-limbed and skinny with all the coordination of a wet rock, no smouldering eyes or any of that stuff all the girls liked. Instead my eyes were a little bit too round, and my eyelashes a little bit too long, that, on the whole, I ended up with an annoying doe-eyed wimpy demeanour that didn't melt any girl's heart.

My own heart was beating against my ribcage like a mad little drummer boy and I placed a quavering hand across my chest in an attempt to calm it. Finally, after what seemed like an age and a half, I was able to soften the beatings to a steady murmur.

'If only you were a girl,' Chris said in a whisper. He was thinking out loud again, thoughts tumbling from his mouth like pebbles down a hill.

'If you were a girl,' Chris continued, furrowing his brow and running his hands through his hair more times than necessary (five times in total), 'then everything, all these… _things_, would make more sense.' Sucking in a breath of air Chris turned towards me, his eyes meeting my own with such intensity that the little drummer boy heart of mine began to drum at a ferocious pace.

'I don't give a shit about Becky Ramirez!' Chris blurted out, lashing a wild arm out to one side and knocking over a lamp in the process. The lamp, fortunately, was already broken, just like so many other things in the Chambers house—furniture, fixtures, family. 'Or any of the others,' he added.

'I'm not a girl!' I said in reply, sounding very similar to a whining child. I had to stop myself from saying something along the lines of 'girls smell', reminding myself that I was no longer that eight-year-old kid collecting bird feathers for his wings (what a stupid little kid I must have been to think that I could fly). But I couldn't help but feel a longing for those early days: days when the summers seemed to last an age, when everything seemed so simple and there were no strange and confusing _feelings_ to contend with and try to understand.

'I know,' Chris replied, a blush rising to redden his cheeks. I rarely ever saw Chris blush, even when teachers criticised his work in front of the entire class he always kept his head held high. I knew, deep down, that the criticism always got to him, but he would never let it show, at least not in public. Chris always tried to maintain an air of indifference, an I-don't-give-a-fuck-what-you-think sort of attitude, but he was blushing now, furiously as if a fire was burning beneath his skin.

'Shit, I'm such a shit,' he exclaimed, pushing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. For a fraction of a second I thought I saw the glint of a tear upon his cheek; but it could have easily been a trick of the light—which was in the form of dim sunbeams streaming in through dirty windows—as it was gone when Chris dropped his hands from his face. I quickly felt any remnants of anger trickle away, replaced only with a desire to _make things right_. Not that I had any idea of how to go about doing that, nor what 'right' actually was—nothing seemed to be right anymore, and I had little frame of reference. Edging towards him, I picked up the fallen lamp and placed it carefully back on the table, almost as if it were an offering to Chris—a symbol of my lack of anger towards him and my desire to bring things back to where they once were.

'You're not a shit,' I said softly. I took another step towards him and gently touched my fingertips to his arm, though I didn't let the touch linger for long. I didn't dare. 'Let's go for a walk. I don't give a shit about Becky Ramirez either.'

A small smile lifted the corner of Chris's lips and he nodded, moving towards the front door and opening it for me. I stepped out of the Chambers dim and damp house into the yellow glow of the sun, Chris following closely behind me. 'What about school?' he asked.

'I'm taking the day off,' I answered, feeling a smile rise to my own lips, reflecting Chris's own. 'Just like old times, yeah?'

'Just like old times…' Chris repeated, as if he were repeating a mantra. However, deep down we both knew that something integral had changed, and that things could never be exactly like 'old times'. How could we stay the same after what happened? Just thinking about the past… _events_ made my stomach twist up into tightly wound knots. I tried to push it all to the back of my mind, shoving the thoughts into a dark and hidden recess of my brain. Walking would help clear my head, or at least I hoped it would.

We wandered down the empty streets of Castle Rock in mutual silence. The silence was not entirely uncomfortable, but there still lingered something unsaid in the space between us. I didn't know where I was going and Chris, who sauntered by my side, didn't seem to have much of an idea of his destination either. Our feet were on autopilot; we walked for at least a good half-an-hour, or maybe more, down dusty paths and across Beeman's field before finally reaching the railroad tracks. It was then that we stopped.

'Should we keep walking?' Chris asked, finally breaking the silence. I could tell he was thinking, once again, of Ray Brower. Though neither of us had really been aware of where we were going, we had found ourselves walking the same route we had took in our search for Ray's body all those years back. It brought a wave of nostalgia that hit me like a speeding train and I felt the urge to keep on going, to continue down the railroad tracks and on to whatever future lay beyond.

'I don't see why not,' I said and I began to walk beside the tracks, my feet sending up clouds of black dust. It felt odd to be the one in the lead, the one calling the shots. Usually it was always Chris who walked ahead, the leader of the pack, but now the pack could hardly be called a pack at all, just a pair: a pair of boys on their way to becoming young men.

'This brings back memories,' he said and I smiled. I was glad that he was talking again; the long silence of our walk had begun to take its toll on my sanity. I was even gladder that he was talking about something that had nothing to do with… what happened. It was like a trip down memory lane, or, more accurately, a trip down memory railway tracks.

'It's crazy how everything still looks the same here,' I replied, glancing behind me to see the familiar houses and factories of Castle Rock silhouetted against the late morning sun. I looked at my watch and saw that it was well past eleven. I had left school during morning break over an hour ago and I wondered, briefly, what the teachers would think of both Chris' and my joint absence. I realised that I didn't really care what they thought. Every single one of them could all go to hell.

'Yeah, nothing ever seems to change in Castle Rock,' said Chris, kicking at a pebble as if the action itself was his attempt to change at least one thing.

I let his words linger in my mind for a moment before asking, 'what about us? Don't you think we've changed?'

Looking over to Chris I saw his shoulders lift into a shrug, though his eyes were still fixed firmly on the ground beneath his feet. 'You don't count,' he said finally. 'You're bigger than this place. Castle Rock is like a prison for you.'

I couldn't help but agree with him on that one. Castle Rock _did_ feel like a prison, although most of the people in it didn't seem to realise they were prisoners; going about their daily routine with no awareness of the invisible walls that surrounded them or the invisible shackles that bound their feet, not until they attempted to leave that is.

'But isn't Castle Rock like a prison for you too?' I asked.

Nodding, though still not looking up from his feet, Chris replied, 'Yeah… but I deserve to be here. You don't.'

'Don't say that,' I said, annoyed at the dejected words leaving his lips and even more annoyed at the dejected look on his face. 'You're bigger than Castle Rock too, you know?' I wanted him to lift his eyes from the ground and look at me. It was then that I realised that he hadn't looked me in the eye since we had left the Chambers house.

'I've fucked up the only friendship I've ever had.' Chris's voice was almost a whisper now, as if he half-wished for me not to hear him. 'And I'm gonna fuckin' flunk my college classes. I just know it.'

I stopped walking and stared at Chris in disbelief. What was he talking about? I was obviously still his friend. We were walking together for fuck's sake! Plus he was doing fine at school, so why was he saying all this stupid shit about flunking and fucking up friendships when he hadn't done either? Chris continued walking, and continued to keep his eyes firmly glued on the floor, so I grabbed his arm and yanked it firmly so that he would turn around. It worked, but although he turned he still didn't look me in the eye. It was absolutely infuriating.

'Stop saying stupid things!' I finally yelled, yanking a second time at his arm with even more force. Chris stumbled towards me, only just managing to stop himself from falling. I was surprised at how easy it was to move him. Normally he was as steady as a rock; whenever we play fought as kids Chris was always ridiculously difficult to budge, but now it seemed as if all his steadiness had seeped right out of him. 'Look at me! What's wrong with you?'

Finally Chris lifted his green steal gaze to meet mine. He looked so forlorn that it felt almost painful to maintain eye contact with him, as if his gaze was shooting needles into me. The look on his face reminded me of the look he had three years back; when he had confessed to me that he stole the school milk-money, and how, after feeling guilty, he had tried to return it to that bitch of a teacher Mrs Simons, who stole it herself and blamed Chris for it all. The world was a cruel and unfair place, and Chris learnt that truth at far too young an age.

'I don't know what's wrong with me,' Chris muttered. 'Everything's fucked up and I'm fucked up and I'm sorry I kis—did that to you, but I can't stop thinking these… fucking things and I went to Becky last night to try and push the thoughts out my head, to try and be normal for once, but it didn't work. It never fucking works!'

I felt my stomach twist into knots once again and I turned to look away, to stare along the railroad tracks and over to the horizon and, most importantly, to break Chris's steel gaze. Letting go of his arm I quickly shoved my hands in my pockets—the action of a kid who didn't know what to do with himself. There was a trace of a confession in Chris's words and, although I had heard it, I tried not to think about it. It all confused me too much, making my brain do awkward loop-de-loops inside my skull.

Then an idea occurred to me. I wasn't sure whether it was a good one but at least it was something. I was an idea that felt fitting, and—this is probably the writer in me talking—seemed to make narrative sense. I turned back to Chris to see that his eyes had returned to their default state of staring at the ground, and gave him what I hoped was a friendly nudge in the side.

'Let's keep following the tracks to Back Harlow Road,' I eventually said, managing to conjure up a smile. I saw a frown wrinkle Chris's brow but he said nothing. 'We can retrace our steps and… I don't know,' I shrugged before continuing, 'maybe figure all this fucked up stuff out.'

'But Teddy and Vern aren't with us this time,' said Chris, the frown still there but now slightly less evident.

'They're not main characters anymore,' I replied, feeling the truth in my words as soon as I said it. Teddy and Vern were no longer part of our story; they had their own tales to tell—tales that didn't involve Chris or me as main characters either.

The frown had almost entirely disappeared from Chris's features and I could see that he was noticing the beginnings of a Gordie Lachance story. It had been a while since I had last told story, although I felt this one would not be quite like the rest. I wasn't even sure how it was going to end, nor was I really telling it, I was just sort of _doing _it—_living_ it. But then, I suppose, we have to first live the stories we tell, at least in some way. When I was in college, one of my English professors had told me that all novels came from experience. Even when you were writing complete fiction, there were always some sprinklings of truth powdering the tall tales.

'What about food?' Chris asked, glancing up to squint at the sun. Although I had a watch and could easily tell the time (almost midday, and therefore almost lunchtime), Chris always preferred to tell the time by the position of the sun in the sky (high). For him it felt more natural, and, of course, he didn't own a watch himself.

'Don't you remember?' I asked with a knowing look, all the old childhood memories—now in _Technicolor—_streaming easily back into my mind. 'There's a shop at the end of that little road that goes to the dump—'

Before I could finish what I had to say, Chris quickly filled in, 'One of us can get some hamburger meat and some Cokes there.'

My tentative smile now turned into a fully-fledged grin. I was glad to have steered the subject away from awkward and unknown feelings, despite knowing that, at some point during our retraced journey, we'd have to confront it all. I was also glad to see the shadow of another smile appearing on Chris's lips. If I had to list my favourite things, write them on scraps of paper and put them in a box for my future self to ponder over, I would place Chris's smile pretty high up there. I wanted him to be happy; after all he deserved it more than anyone else I knew.

* * *

I shoved the recently purchased goods inside my school bag, which I luckily happened to have with me, before heading back towards the railroad tracks. I could see Chris waiting for me, leaning languidly against a nearby tree with his head tilted upwards to peer at dappled sunlight through the leaves. The way the light fell on him, casting a mosaic and mottled amber glow upon his skin, made Chris look as if he were on another plane of existence. Though his appearance was that of a sixteen-year-old, there was the look of a man much older buried just beneath the surface of his young unwrinkled flesh.

I hadn't realised how long I had been stood there looking at him until Chris turned and noticed my presence. Attempting to hide a blush that had crept up on me, I took an apple out of my bag and handed it to him. He took it without a word.

'_Bon appetite_,' I said before wincing at the lameness of it. Why did I suddenly feel so embarrassed about saying stupid things in front of Chris? I said stupid things in front of Chris _all the time_.

'_Merci_,' Chris replied, but his pronunciation was a little bit off so instead it sounded like he said 'mercy'.

I took an apple out of my bag for myself and together, munching on our respective fruits, Chris and I continued walking. It didn't take us long to reach Castle River and the bridge which crossed it. The bridge looked almost exactly the same, with its narrow wooden walkways (although walkways was a very loose term for them) on either side of the railroad tracks. I was the first to step onto it.

'But what if there's a train like before?' Chris asked as he followed me, him on one side of the tracks and me on the other. I thought back to the last time we crossed the bridge and the mixture of fear and exhilaration that had come over my twelve-year-old self when I had felt the rumbling of an oncoming train. I had just barely missed being hit back then and if things had happened any other way, if I had tripped on a jutting plank of wood, I could have ending up just like the Ray Brower kid; although, rather than on the side of the tracks with my Keds off my feet, I'd have landed in the river fifty feet below. I swallowed that thought along with a lump of saliva that had collected in my throat.

'I'll race you,' I said, almost as if it was an answer to Chris's question, and, before Chris could react, I began to run as fast as my gangly legs could carry me. The air whipped past my face and, for a moment, I felt like I was flying (feathers or no). _Surely this is the fastest I have ever run_, I thought, but, as I turned to look to my side, I could see that Chris had already caught up with me. Though I was a little annoyed (I was so certain that he would still be behind me, if just by a little bit), I was happy to see the childish look of laughter upon his face. Chris always loved a race.

In barely any time at all, Chris had overtaken me and was speeding well ahead. I felt a stitch begin in the side of my abdomen but I continued to push on. Although Chris was easily winning, just like he always did, I didn't want to let him win by too much.

Two and a half years ago, about seven months or so after our search for Ray Brower's dead body, a two-hundred-car train had come speeding across the bridge over Castle River. It was like many other two-hundred-car trains—filled with cargo and heading through Castle Rock to bigger, more important, places; but its final dozen or so car was overloaded, although what they were overloaded with is now lost in history. Those final cars, as they passed across the railroad tracks, had put pressure on a plank about three-quarters of the way down the bridge. A screw had come loose, nothing major, and nothing that really damaged the structural integrity of the track, except, maybe, to cause a bit of wood to jut out, ever so slightly, from its designated position. As the months went by, more cargo trains crossed over the bridge, increasingly overloaded due to the increasing demand for whatever useless shit they carried, loosening the screw and jutting out the plank of wood by about a hundredth of an inch each time; never enough, however, to jeopardise the safety of the bridge in any real way, and never enough for someone to come over and fix it.

About three-quarters of the way down the bridge that fateful jutting plank of wood caught the tip of my sneakers. I fell forward, reaching my arms out in front of me to stop my face from slamming into the wooden walkway. It took my brain a moment to register what had happened. I had fallen over. Again. It was the second time in two days. When did I become like Vern? So fucking clumsy.

I looked down and saw the river splashing below me and I felt as if my heart was about to jump up my throat and right out of me. Why hadn't I noticed how high this bridge was? Or how far down that river was? Suddenly vertigo glued me in place and I couldn't do anything except stare down at the river, like staring into the void.

'GORDIE!' Chris was yelling at me from the end of the bridge. I lifted my head to look at him and could see that he had already made it to solid ground. He was waving manically and I there was the glint of terror in his eyes. It was then that I heard, and felt, the deep and low rumbling, vibrating through me as if to my very soul. It was the unmistakable rumbling of an oncoming train. _Just like last time_, a little part of me thought, _how very apt_.

The events that followed went by in a blur. Chris had sprinted from the safety of solid ground and back onto the bridge, speeding towards me as fast as any train—or at least that's what it seemed like to my slightly vertigo-warped mind. He had been the one to pull me to my feet and, taking my hand in his, he dragged me into motion. Before I knew it I was sprinting along behind him, so fast that it felt as if the stitch in my side was about to burst open, spilling blood and guts all over the railroad tracks. But Chris carried on, and I had to carry on along with him. In a matter of seconds, although the time dilation of adrenaline made it feel like hours, we had made it to the other side. Together we jumped and launched ourselves onto the ground on the side of the tracks, falling into a crumpled heap in the dirt. Moments later the train came whizzing past us, the roaring noise of it filling the air.

Neither of us moved until the train had fully passed us by. I felt dazed and dizzy and partly crushed. I soon realised that Chris had landed on top of me, one of his elbows jabbing into my stomach and making it difficult for me to breath.

'Ugh,' I wheezed, trying to sit up and managing to collide heads with Chris in the process.

'Ouch,' was his reply. I squinted through the dust that was settling around us to see Chris rubbing at the sore spot on his forehead. He adjusted himself slightly, lifting his elbow from my stomach, and I felt a sense of relief as the pressure lifted, allowing my to breathe. But as I began to inhale a deep breath of air, a cloud of dust came along with it and my cough reflex immediately set in. I spluttered, coughing with such intensity that I thought I'd spew up all my insides. It was not a pleasant feeling.

'You okay?' I heard Chris ask and I felt him gently place a hand on my back, tracing smooth and soothing circles on the fabric of my shirt. After a few more residual splutters I nodded, lifting my head so as to look at him. I was taken aback by how his face was suddenly so close mine; so close that I could see the individual freckles that sprinkled his cheekbones and the flecks of gold that dotted his green eyes.

I licked my lips—they tasted of dirt and sweat—and I saw Chris's eyes dart down to follow the course of my tongue. For a second I thought he was going to kiss me again and I tensed, bracing myself in anticipation of the moment. However, a few more seconds passed and I realised he wasn't going to; although he did stay in the same place, his face remaining as close to mine as it had been before. I was relieved… I think.

'Let's not do that again,' he said after lifting his eyes from my lips. I felt an odd pang in my chest—just above my heart—but I tried to ignore it.

'No way in hell,' I replied, shaking my head. 'I don't really want to dodge a speeding train for a third time.'

'But doing it twice is a-okay?' he asked, a hint of mirth in his voice. I never quite realised how many different colours were in Chris's eyes before; not just green with little golden specks, but hazels, browns and even shades of blue.

'How was I supposed to know there'd be another train?' I said, tearing my eyes away from his to inspect the far less colourful ground instead.

'Well it _is_ a railway bridge,' said Chris, laughing a little. 'Here,' he continued, and I felt his fingers lightly brush my cheek. The surprise of his touch caused me to look up at him once more. 'There's some dirt on your face.'

I blushed. 'Thanks,' I muttered.

* * *

_**To be continued…**_

Once again, thank you for all the amazing reviews. I'm sorry for how long this took and I hope you enjoyed it. I'll try not to take two years next time around.

Novem


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